


Broken Dreams

by lawfulknightress



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Choice Must Be Made, Friendship, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Original Character(s), POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Male Character, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawfulknightress/pseuds/lawfulknightress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although John was prepared to expect the unexpected, as one really must do in the company of Sherlock Holmes, he wasn’t prepared to expect what he deemed impossible: a self-proclaimed sociopath's emotions. But when the peak is hit, a terrifying turn of events causes them to decide what's more important: John's life or Sherlock's?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Nightmare of Living

**Author's Note:**

> This may not be mature to begin with, but I wanted to test the waters and see if anyone liked it before delving really deep into it.

 

“There are many who don't wish to sleep for fear of nightmares. Sadly, there are many who don't wish to wake for the same fear.”  
― Richelle E. Goodrich

 

Living with Sherlock Holmes in itself has always had a touch of excitement to it for me. I can count on one hand, the number of times I’ve seen the same thing twice. It has become standard for me to see a severed head in the refrigerator on Monday and then have it replaced with a jar of dislocated eyes Tuesday afternoon. Being in the military medical forces had given me an ability to compartmentalize the strange and disfigured, and I often laugh at the thought of Sherlock ever having another flatmate.

_Who, besides me, could stomach pushing past a jar containing rotting feet to retrieve the jam and butter?_

            I laugh in spite of myself and I lay my head down to sleep again. It’s been a long day and I have surgery in the morning.

_I don’t want to go to surgery... But c’est la vie, I suppose._

 

*** 

 

            I wake with an electric shock, panicked. I thought it might have been a dream at first, but when, after waking up, it doesn’t end, my stomach sinks: _Sherlock is screaming_. It’s not any sort of screaming I’ve ever heard before; it’s more of a bellow of horror and pain. I’ve seen him in a myriad of life-threatening situations and I have yet to ever hear this much panic escape him.

I retrieve my Sig, and find myself down the stairs before I can even remember opening my door. I run into his room arm poised for a fatal shot to whomever has hurt him until I realize that there is no culprit to shoot- only Sherlock asleep in his bed, flailing about and crying out for help. I drop the gun on the bedside table and jump onto the bed straddling him to steady his movements, holding both wrists to the bed at his waist. It kills me inside to see him like this. I know nightmares. I know the all-too-real power they have on people, and how it feels impossible to get away from. My life until Baker Street was immersed in them.

            “Jesus- SHERLOCK!” I roar, trying to be loud enough to reach him in his unconsciousness, but soft enough as to not wake Mrs. Hudson, as if Sherlock hadn’t done a good enough job of trying to.

 “Sherlock, it’s not real! It’s just a dream! Wake up!” He flails a bit on the bed a little more, his chest reeling underneath me as his shirt tightens to show every muscle and each trembling breath, “Sherlock, please! It’s just a dream!” Finally he shoots up, and if I hadn’t primed my reflexes to jump out of the way, probably would have head-butted me in the nose. Eyes peeled open, panic and distress is strewn across his face as he hyperventilates in his bed. He’s covered in a cold sweat brought on by the energy he just expelled, and he shivers from the frigid air and shock. I slowly settle on the side of his bed with my hands palms-out. “Sherlock, you’re alright. It was just a dream. I get them, too. Just breathe, you’ll be alright.”

            He looks at me with a pain sewn into his face that I’ve never seen before. His eyes bloodshot, wide and filling with the shine of tears; his cheeks vibrantly red contrasting his pale skin; his mouth gaping open, gasping for air; his lips swollen red from his biting them. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m here for you, just breathe before you pass out.”

            Sherlock looks around the room in a panic and then folds his legs up to his chest and pushes his back against the headboard of his bed. For such a tall man, he surprisingly takes up very little space. He then tucks his face into his knees and I can feel the convulsions of his sobs through the bed. I can only imagine what he was dreaming to invoke such a violent response out of one of the calmest and most steady men I’ve ever met. I know he won’t talk to me about it, so I scoot myself next to him and place my arm over his shoulders. At first he shrugs it off, but when I insist on its placement, he slowly leans into my chest, silently sobbing away his fears. I can only imagine what this looks like: two middle-aged men huddling together on a bed holding each other. Regardless of how it looks, Sherlock needs me, so I hug him tighter to my body.

“Sherlock, it was just a dream. I’m here, don’t worry. Just breathe,” my right hand secures his arm against his knee and my left strokes the nape of his neck. I pull him closer to my chest as if the pressure against me should steady his body. Finally, I feel his shudders become less and less frequent until they die altogether and he sits up straight and wipes his face on his blanket so that I can’t see the havoc it’s caused on his appearance. My hand is still placed at his nape and I trace his hairline with my thumb, “Sherlock, are you alright? What can I do?”

He looks straight ahead and removes all the emotion from his body in stillness, “I’m fine, thank you. Please just leave.”

Initially, I’m hurt, but then I remember the façade that he tries to exhibit: strength; stoicism; a sociopathic lack of emotion. I’m sure than allowing me to see him cut this deep was almost as bad as whatever nightmare he just experienced.

“Alright, I’m going to make some tea.”

 

*****

 

_How could I have just let that happen? John should have NEVER seen that._

 I can’t even stand myself right now. As I pull the blankets higher over my knees, I stare out into the cold winds outside. I haven’t had a dream like that since my days before working with Scotland Yard. Back when a chemical high was more preferable than an intellectual high.

I can feel my body shaking without my permission to do so. My breathing has finally relaxed enough to expel the dizziness of lack of oxygen. I gradually get up and retreat to my bathroom, figuratively tucking my tail between my legs. I grasp onto both sides of the sink and slowly allow myself to see what the battlefield of my face looks like.

“I look like shit,” a whisper only loud enough that I can hear. The bags under my eyes seem tattooed in purple ink and my already too-thin face seems gaunt and sick. I can see the tear stains on my face and the sweat on my shirt and decide to rid myself of both. I strip myself and submerse myself in the heat of a midnight shower. That nightmare was terrible. But, the only thing that made it not as painful was the reason I woke up: _John_.

I’ve woken up from those kinds of dreams in a myriad of ways: cold, alone, and on the floor of an abandoned warehouse; the same, save a swift slap to the face from a nearby junkie tired of my noise; alone in my bed. But I’ve never woken up to someone comforting me. It sends a warm feeling into the pit of my stomach. _I’ve never had someone to comfort me._ I’ve never had someone to wipe away my tears before and allowing someone to see me this vulnerable makes me sick. I’ve never shown anyone this much of me.

But then again, I’ve never had a _John Watson._

 

***

 

After I finish my shower, I clothe myself in a new set of pajamas and my dark blue house coat. John always makes tea after something happens. It’s the biggest British stereotype I can imagine, but I always appreciate it.   I silently make my way into the living area and sit on my chair. John hears the stretch on the seat and turns towards me while pouring a cup of tea for me and then himself, adding two sugars to one cup.

“Look, I know it’s hard, but just let me help,” his voice is so soft I can barely hear it, but it soothes my racing mind. “If you don’t want to talk about your dream, you don’t have to, but let me at least check you out.” _Check me out?_

“What do you mean?”

He walks towards our chairs, hands me a cup, and sits down, “I need to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself. You know, give yourself a hernia or something.” He chuckles slightly and sips his tea. I’m sure he’s just being over-precautious, but I do have the luck of breaking my neck in the middle of the night.

“Fine.”

He smiles, places his tea down on the side table and retrieves his kit from his room, returning before I can even taste my too-hot tea.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” He shines a light into my eyes and takes my pulse. He motions to take my blood pressure, but I assure him it’s not necessary.

“Really, I’m fine. Just shaken up,” I try to not sound sincere, as if I was just playing it off as a joke, but I can’t hide the shakiness that I feel.

“I know, but you had a pretty rough time in there. Are you alright? Do you want to talk about it? I understand it’s hard, but it does actually help to talk it out.”

I look at him and go to open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His deep blue eyes are staring back at my with such intensity, I have to assume it is concern. Maybe something more, I’m not sure. He’s posed with his elbows on his knees, cup in both hands, brow furrowed, and expecting a life story to fall out of my lips. He looks so intense, so strong, and I can’t help but find myself attracted to him.

“You alright, mate?”

His voice startles me at first, and I try again, “It really was nothing. Just a nightmare, nothing more.” It comes out separated and indifferent, and I hope it masks the emotions that are shooting out of me uncontrollably.

He looks down into his tea before speaking. “Okay. I understand. Just let me know if you need someone to listen, alright?” He grins and I swear I can feel the warmth of his heart radiate through it. He then rises to place his cup in the kitchen sink, washes it out, dries his hands on the dish towel and makes for the door. “I’ll be in my room if you need me alright? I won’t be far away.”

He smiles again but before the door shuts, my mouth opens of its own accord,

“John?”

He pokes his head back through the door, “Hmm?”

My mouth continues to move and I can’t force the words to stop. “Do you think- you could stay out here?” _This is getting out of hand._ “Just for a while- until my nerves relax?”

His mouth pulls up on one side, “Of course. Let me get some blankets from the linen closet.” He then disappears through the door again and I can feel my face twist in confusion. _What was all that? Did that just leave my mouth?_ Maybe it’s the nerves, maybe it’s the lack of sleep; whatever it is, I’m losing control of my mouth and I just need to shut up.

John returns with the sheets and after placing one on his seat, he places one on the couch. “Here you go. You need to get some sleep.” He motions for me to lie on the makeshift bed and I oblige. He pats my arm and then retreats to his chair, turns on a lamp dark enough to not bother me, and begins to read. It looks like a relatively classic book, with a worn cover and yellowed pages. Perhaps _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ orsome other Jules Verne novel.

My skin burns where he touched me. I know it was just an exhibit of masculine affection, but regardless, the heat of his hands impressed upon a place I haven’t been able to reach before. It’s frightening, but it’s new. And it’s definitely _not boring_.

 

*****

 

            I look towards the clock and sigh: 4:37 A.M.

_So much for sleeping before surgery._

I stand up, stretch, and look to my flatmate. I’ve always heard that every face looks innocent and peaceful when it sleeps, but I couldn’t imagine Sherlock Holmes ever looking “at peace”. Surprisingly enough, though, the curves of his normally sharp face have softened, and his lower lip is pursed in sleep. I can’t help but chuckle at myself. _He’s adorable!_ I bet if Donovan or Lestrade ever got a picture of something this exposing of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, they’d have a field day.

Sherlock hasn’t moved besides the expected hourly turn on his side since he fell back asleep, and I have to imagine that if he asked me to stay for comfort and actually allowed me to watch him sleep- something he would describe as a vulnerable state- meant that he was past the point of exhaustion and frankly out of his wits. I think even further. _He asked me to stay and watch him sleep_. If that doesn’t show that Sherlock Holmes trusted me, I’m not exactly sure what would.

I can’t stop my feet from walking over towards Sherlock’s limp body, just in order to check his heart rate and to pull the sheet up over his shoulders since I can see him shiver every so often from the draft. I kneel at the side of the couch (Sherlock would smirk at my “bedside manner”), and as touch my fingers- that I made sure to be warm by holding then on the edge of a new cup of tea- to his neck, he unconsciously lifts his jaw exposing his jugular vein. I can’t help but smirk at his involuntary motions, and before I can stop myself, I lightly place my lips on his temple, like a mother caressing a sleeping child. Sherlock shifts his face towards the opposite side of the couch as if to shoo me away, but then I hear him grumble a secret whisper his subconscious can’t hide,

“ _Love… You…”_

I feel the flush in my cheeks and ears as I stare at his sleeping body. _Did Sherlock just tell me that he_ loves _me? Impossible!_ He nuzzles his face farther into his pillow and a soft purr of his breath against it fills the air. I can’t even begin to explain the feelings welling up inside, but I try to hold them back. Instead of replying, I simply stroke his unruly curls and then return quietly to my room. All my life, I’ve identified as a straight man, but I can’t hide the fact that Sherlock means something more to me than just my friend. His ostentatious attitude and stand-offish manner of speaking isn’t a thing of fairy tales, but he is so much more charming than any of those characters. _At least to me._


	2. Cazy Genius

Going to bed at five ’o’ clock in the morning wasn’t exactly one of my better ideas, so I decide to just start the day at the crack of dawn. _Early bird, I suppose._ Although, I can’t imagine this early bird getting any worm without Sherlock wanting to do some sort of experiment on it to test its ability to separate and become two different entities.

I take my clothes back into the bathroom and shuck my pajamas. Standing in the hot rain should steam away the countless thoughts barraging my mind. I unknowingly reach to touch my left shoulder and feel the indentation in my skin. I can feel the scar tissue, hard and yet very smooth almost in a spider web across where the wound once stood. _I’ve had my fair share of nightmares thanks to you._ Then I pull my hands away from myself and examine their qualities.

 I’ve never had long fingers, but they do the job of a doctor well. They are deft, steady, and strong: strong enough to hold back the thrashing Sherlock Holmes. Then a twinge of regret: _That probably hurt_. I’m not exactly sure I remember how hard I held onto Sherlock’s wrists, but I can imagine at least hard enough to leave sufficient bruising.

_Dammit Sherlock._

I rub shampoo into my short hair, half-way dazed. I still can’t wrap my head around something that would upset Sherlock. Sure, maybe catch him off-guard, but nothing that would frighten him to tears. Sherlock could look at a mangled corpse and tell you his favorite toothpaste by looking at the blood-gunked remainder of teeth. He could stone-faced as someone held a gun to his head as if he was not afraid of them pulling the trigger (that much was probably more due to him being a complete prick than with him being brave). But regardless, these are the sorts of things that _normal_ people would dream about at night and shake them into reality with terror. So what could _possibly_ scare Sherlock to that same ends?

I finish my shower and towel myself off, throwing the used cloth into the hamper on the floor. After ungracefully brushing my teeth, I head back down the stairs into the kitchen.

To my surprise, Sherlock is still motionless on the couch, with only the slight expansion of his chest to distinguish him from the corpses that he looked at every day. Although, he had moved around a bit more and was now flat on his back with his hand bent up to his face. It reminded me of the lyrics of some musical a girlfriend in high school made me sit through, “ _hold up your hand to the level of your eye”._   Something to do with some crazy genius that lived in an opera house, I think.

_Crazy genius_.

“I suppose they all come like that don’t they?” I laugh at myself.

Apparently that was enough disturbance in the room to wake Sherlock. He stared at me, began to shift himself up on the couch and pulled a stretch-yawn combination. His curls were splayed everywhere, as if sleep had ironed them away from his face.

“Tea or coffee?” I ask quietly. I’ve never seen Sherlock in the process of regaining consciousness so I’m not exactly sure what his tolerance of noise was in the morning.

He looks at the clock on the wall of the kitchen and stands up straight showing his real height, “Coffee.”

_Black, two sugars._ I’ve known his order since the day I met him. Although he is about as erratic as they come, he never changes his tastes.

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Hmm?” I look towards Sherlock again before handing him his cup.

“You said ‘they all come like that’. Who is ‘they’?”

I laugh and shake my head. “Crazy geniuses. They don’t ever seem to be geniuses unless there’s a screw loose up top.”

He looked a bit offended but made no comment. He just sat back down on the couch and sipped his coffee.

“So, Sherlock,” I start, trying to hide the concern in my voice. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock ignores the question and stares out of the window towards the now rising sun.

“ _Sherlock_.” I know I sound like a puppy’s owner requiring him to drop the shoe, but sometimes it’s the only way to convince Sherlock I need an answer.

He shoots me a look of defiance, then recants, “Yes, John. I’m fine. Stop worrying, you’ll just turn grey more quickly.”

“Bollocks. I’m old, but not that old yet.” Is that a twinge of self-consciousness I feel? Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice either way, and goes on sipping his morning drink.

“I better get a move-on,” I say while picking up my jacket. “I’ll see you tonight?”

Sherlock again ignores the attempt at communication, and instead pulls out his laptop from the coffee table and begins to tap away at the keys.

I turn and shake my head while shutting the flat door. _Ah well. People to sew up; lives to save._

 

***

The nightmares don’t stop.

It’s been a week since the first incident of night-terrors had occurred and I still can’t control them.

They’re never the same, either. Always a different scenario, but normally the same people. Sometimes it’s all four, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John; sometimes it’s just John. Either way they always end up in situations that I can’t stop. I wrack my brain of all useful information regarding nightmares.

Causes:

Eating late at night increases metabolism and signals the brain to be more active: _Irrelevant._

Medications cause chemical imbalances: _Irrelevant._

Drugs: _Irrelevant._

Withdrawal symptoms: _again, Irrelevant._

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: _obvious and still Irrelevant._

“Useless information!” I call out to the empty room. John has gone to surgery and would be back later, but for now, I have complete solitude in which to think.

I’ve tried not to sleep until John had left for the day, as to make sure he was not around if things went awry. Which, every day since the first, they had managed to. Most days I merely wake up silently, with only my racing heart and cold sweat to remind me what I’d seen. But there had been one day where John had clearly been released of duty early, only to return home to find me thrashing about on the couch before I could wake myself up. From what he’d told me, I had been swatting as some unseen assailant screaming at him, “Stop! Leave him alone!” He jokingly told me that I had taken a swing at his face and if contact would have been made, would probably have broken his nose.

Shortly after, Mrs. Hudson heard the clamor as well and decided to see what was the matter, but before she could enter the flat John had assured her, that I had been re-enacting a new case and was not in the frame of mind to have tea and biscuits. That was at least partly correct.

John was always able to diffuse bad situations. Perhaps it was thanks to his military career, but either way, it made him incredibly useful when it came to our landlady.

That was the day when John held me first. After the episode, I trembled for close to an hour and my chest ached so severely, I thought I was going into cardiac arrest. For that entire hour, John had just tilted my body on the couch so that I could lie outstretched and hugged my torso towards him. I don’t remember everything he said because frankly, I hadn’t been paying much attention to his voice, instead focusing on counting the relation in frequency of his heartbeat and his breathing.

“ _It’s okay Sherlock. I’ve got you. Nothing can hurt you. I’m right here.”_ I remember, with a pang of shame that I had needed to be coddled like some small child.

John was sure to send me to his therapist if I didn’t straighten up soon though. It’s surprising that he, being a _normal_ person hadn’t suggested it already. But John was so full of surprises.

I notice the sun drawing down to the horizon and look longingly at my bed. _Maybe, if I think of John, that’ll help_. I’m not known to get much sleep as it is, but these nightmares have taken away any amount of sleep that I normally would have received and my body is slowly deteriorating from the stress.

_Fine. Into battle._

***

My dreams aren’t like most people’s. Or at least I assume not. I don’t see splashes of color and sound that are remnants of distant memories, or of stories and movies that I’ve seen. Mine are like life. Mine are straightforward, no hiding in shadows. A story drawn and directed by my subconscious that takes no time to start and whose credits do not roll until I wake.

_I’ve been here before._ The ground is familiar as are my clothes: sand and a thwarb. I feel the sun on my back and look around. Abandoned buildings, silent as the wind tore through the alleyways connecting them. _Maybe this won’t be as bad._ This is familiar ground. I know the story of what happens here. This story doesn’t frighten me.

I walk through the alleyways guided by the midday sun looking for the particular building that I know I’m meant to see. Every building is sun-bleached clay and no window is filled with glass. This was a lower-class village in southern Iran. I had been here following Ra’eese Thaaquib, the head of the _Waseem Uri, which_ roughly translated to “The Graceful Angels”: a rather poetic name for such a vicious group of assassins. This was the last strand of Moriarty’s web and soon this would be over. I remind myself that soon after this was when I’d be headed back to London.

Headed back to John.

Headed _home._

_This is a good one._

At last I find the structure I’m looking for, a little hut made of clay and hay on the outskirts of the village. Silently I move about the structure and listen for the words I’m bound to hear.

A man in the middle of the room, Ra’eese Thaaquib if I’m not mistaken, opens his mouth to speak. The only language that then comes pouring out is Persian.

_I’ve no idea what any of that means._ I thought I remembered hearing English in the mix somewhere.

The words “Sherlock Holmes” are then thrown into the mix of incomprehensible terms.

_I guess they’re talking about me_. I study the room. Not that I actually need to for I remember everything about it.

The maps in the corner have a collection of tacks that show all of the operations that I have squashed in the last three months. The cushions in the middle of the room are bare as the entirety of the group refuses to sit in frustration. This was the last day of their reign in my life. Ra’eese Thaaquib had been hired to exterminate DI Lestrade if I were to ever return from the dead, and as the last surviving assassin, his precious time was nearing its end.

This was to be quick and efficient; a group of five men, the last remaining leaders of “The Graceful Angels” soon to become their namesake.

Over the past two years, I had become a rather experienced hit man myself. Never more than what needed to be dealt with, no collateral damage. Only those who were directly connected to Moriarty’s scheme. Only those who have sinned against my own.

The plan was simple: flash bomb the small hut, quickly dispose of the unwanted hired gun and retreat back to London. After this quick motion of a blade, all would go back to the way it was. I’d be home, and I’d see John.

I put the plan into motion. The bomb is thrown through the window to the astonishment of those that resided inside and then follows a relatively soft _BOOM_ as I run in through the door. Every man was covering his eyes and falling towards the walls away from the center of the room as if able to flee from the blinding light they had just been exposed to.

It doesn’t take me long to find my hit man: cowering in the corner under his maps as if protected by the paper that falls around him. I take out my thin blade and slide it effortlessly across his throat easily ending his useless life. But something’s wrong. This isn’t how it happened. He chokes and spits blood onto his thwab, staining the white fabric red. He then slowly turns towards me and removes the turban-like fabric from around his head. My heart stops. I slam my eyes shut and grab the hair around my ears almost painfully as if to wake myself.

_This is just a dream._

_This is just a dream._

_This is just a dream._

“Sher- _hack-_ lock. I came- _hack_ \- for you.”

I look up in agonizing realization that the man I just murdered was none other than the man I sought to protect.

“Oh my God. John!” I cry as I throw my hand to his bleeding neck, warmth pulsing out over my fingers. “Please, no!”

_This is just a dream_ , I remind myself. But maybe it’s not. Maybe I just murdered the only person I’ve ever loved.

I prepare to hold John into his dying breaths, but instead he turns to me. John’s paling face turns into a crooked smile.

“You let me die, Sherlock. You _killed_ me! Those years you were gone _I DIED.”_ His face twisted and a horrid laugh escaped his lips followed by a catch of breath as if he were about to sob. “I _loved_ you! I was the _only_ one who ever would! _Now you have no one. You’re all alone… Again!”_

The bleeding Dream-John then pushes himself on top of me gripping my shoulders and driving them farther into the sandy ground.

“It’s just a nightmare! Stop it!”

The Dream-John smiles wryly, “I’m a dream, eh?” His hand retreats from my shoulder to grab my thin blade and then pushes it to my chest. “If you feel pain in a dream, Sherlock, you’re supposed to wake up.” He then pushes the blade past my clothes and into my muscle and I realize I’d cried out loud in pain. “Guess it’s not a dream!”

The blade pushes farther in and I can feel it separate the muscles and skin, as if I were a fish ready to fillet. The more I scream, the farther the blade penetrates my body.

“Please John! Stop!”

“I dare you to wake up, Sherlock! Wake up, Sherlock! It’s just a dream, right?” He drops the knife and instead begins to shake my body. “Wake up! Wake up!” The voice sounds distorted, and fades into dissonance. “Wake up! Wake up!”

I comply.


	3. The Truth

“SHERLOCK!”

My eyes spring open and I can feel the cool wave of consciousness rush through me.

_Awake. I’m awake. It was just a dream._

My hand shoots to the area that Dream-John punctured. I instantly pull down the T-Shirt collar and examine the area on my chest with my fingertips. No hole. No blood. No pain.

“Sherlock!”

I feel sick. Maybe I’m about to say something I don’t want to say. Something that John lovingly calls “word vomit”: allowing words to just pour through my mouth without any gates to hinder their emission. But this isn’t one of those times. This is real.

I feel the sick escape my body in a tidal wave of pain up my esophagus. I haven’t eaten in a few days, at least to my knowledge, so all that escapes my mouth is acid burning every part of me as it spurts out.

“Grab some water! _Quickly!_ ”

_Is that John? Who’s he talking to?_

“Sherlock I need you to wake up and breathe. I don’t want you to choke. I need you to spit out anything in your mouth.”

_I guess he’s talking to me_. Everything is spinning and although I hear the words out of John’s mouth, I can’t make sense out of any of them, like a jumble of letters and sounds that don’t make actual directions.

“Jesus, Sherlock! BREATHE!” I try to comply with John’s demand, but I choke and immediately start to cough trying to clear the way to my lungs.

“That’s a good man. Get it out.”

My head is swimming and my eyes keep flowing between in and out of focus. I feel as if I’m coming down from an incredibly bad high and that I haven’t actually landed on the ground yet- then flashing lights in my face.

“Sherlock, look at me. I need you to look at me.” I try, but I can feel my eyes lose focus and my eyelids droop over them.

“Sherlock, come back to me. Stay with me. I need you to stay with me right now.”

I have no control over anything my body is doing. I can feel my eyebrows bounce on my forehead and my head slump backwards as if I’d lost all the bones in my neck. Then I feel pressure on the back of my skull as if I’d been laid down on the ground.

_Why am I on the ground? I’m certain I fell asleep on my bed._

I try to open my eyes again and I see the blur of John moving, almost as if in slow motion. I try to reach out for what I think is his arm,

“ _John,”_ I gurgle. It sounds more like “Jawn” but I hope the message is delivered.

The blur leans towards me, “Yes, Sherlock, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

I’ve never felt this awful after coming out of a nightmare. I can only imagine what’s going on.

“John, I feel-” I can’t finish my sentence but my body explains exactly how I feel.

“Sherlock, it’s okay, just get it out,” he says lightly patting my back. “You rolled off of your bed, hit your head on the corner of the table and stopped breathing. I’m not sure for how long but it obviously happened before I walked into the flat. You’re going to feel a little sick for a while.”

I try to wipe my mouth off and sit up only to have my elbows buckle underneath me.

“Easy now! You’re not all there yet, mate.”

I start to gain focus in my sight and my head starts to clear as I sit up straight and lean against my bed with John’s help. Mrs. Hudson bounces in looking quite fretted indeed and hands me the glass of water John had asked for.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” she coos, “I’m afraid you gave us a little fright, dear.”

I reluctantly swallow some of the liquid which obviously left a terrible taste in my mouth and I push it away. “What happened?” It sounded cliché to ask, but I do need to know what trouble I had gotten myself into.

“Well I was on the phone with Mrs. Turner; she just moved in a new tenant this past week and was boasting about how quiet and normal they seemed to be. Boring tenants lead to a boring life, that’s my motto.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes, but I figure I’m really in no position to argue.

She continues, “And then all of a sudden I heard you screaming bloody murder louder than the gunshots you so lovingly put in my walls! And then it just stopped. Very eerie, so I ran up to see what the matter was and I found you lying on the floor, face all bloodied and no signs of life! Well just then John, dear me, before I could even call for help, he ran up the stairs and took over. It was quite the unnerving experience, dear.”

_Face all bloodied?_ I lift my hand to my forehead and feel the blood, some crusting around the edges, but some still damp towards the center of the wound. I can only imagine what sort of disheveled wreck I look like at the moment: hair wild, face bloodied, mouth accented with sick, what a sight.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson.” I don’t really want to say anything else for fear of what will happen next.

“It’s all right, dear. I’ll clean this up, go sit in the sitting room.” Leave it to Mrs. Hudson to clean up after I ruined her beautiful carpet.

“Up we go,” huffs John as he hoists me up, draping one of my arms over his shoulders. For such a small man, he’s surprisingly strong, and I can feel his shoulders flex and release under my weight. We walk slowly into the common area and he eases me onto the couch.

He then slinks delicately to his chair and positions himself, poised and ready for answers.

_Cue interrogation._

 

***

“Sherlock, there is something really wrong here. Can’t you see that?” There’s no hiding the concern in my voice now. I _need_ to know. “You haven’t slept in days; you’ve eaten about as frequently; you just bloody well nearly _killed_ yourself and had Mrs. Hudson not been downstairs, no one would have been able to help! Dammit Sherlock, what _aren’t_ you telling me?!”

All Sherlock can manage is a shrug as he pulls out his phone from the table and begins to text away.

“Lestrade thinks he might have a case of interest for us. ‘Three people dead. Looks like suicide,’ as if we haven’t been able to solve that before. Strangulat-”

“ _Dammit Sherlock!_ ” At this point, I can feel my face reddening and I am livid. “Can’t you see that the case doesn’t matter if you’re not there to solve it?” I feel the reality of the words sink into his brain as his eyes narrow at me.

“Well perhaps if I had something to do, my mind wouldn’t feel it necessary to invent things to entertain me.”

“ _Entertain?!_ Sherlock, you call screaming at night bloody _entertaining_? You call terrifying us _entertaining_? What is fucking _wrong_ with you?” I taste the venom in my words on my tongue.  “Sherlock, I’m worried sick!”

Indignant, he spits, “Why is that? Just go about your business and leave me be!”

“Leave you be, eh? Leave you be, to destroy yourself? What kind of friend do you think I am, Sherlock?”

He cocks an eyebrow and looks down to his phone again, “Obviously not the kind to know what does and doesn’t concern him.”

I stand up and walk towards him, challenging him, “You think this doesn’t _concern_ me? Not even the _slightest_? You don’t think I care?”

Obviously not miffed in the least bit, Sherlock raises his eyes, “You shouldn’t. I don’t need your help. Now leave me be.”

“It’s not even been a year, Sherlock! Not even been a _year_ since you came back from the dead! Now you want me to lose you again? You expect me to watch you slowly fall apart? Let me hel-”

“I said _go!_ ” His normally silver-blue eyes shift into icy steel as he barks.

The silence of us staring at each other, daring the other to speak first is almost deafening.

“Fine. Just don’t expect me to go to another one of your bloody funerals.”

I turn on my heel, grab my coat and slam the door.

“Could someone really be that much of an annoying dick _all the time_?” I shove my hands into my pockets as I brave the frigid London air, steam rising off of my flushed cheeks.

“ _Fucking prick_.”

***

I’m not exactly sure where I thought I would go, but I found that if I just kept walking, the anger would dissipate with the temperature.

I look at my watch and sigh: 20:39. It’s been about three hours since I walked in on Sherlock’s lifeless body. I had thought that seeing him jump off that roof would have been the worst of it: watching my best friend end his own life without anyone to show him there was a way out. But seeing him come back and then try and leave me again was even more traumatic.

I had spent two years berating myself for not showing him before that someone, more importantly, _that I_ cared. I told myself every day that if I had just let him known that morning that he wasn’t alone in the world, that I needed his friendship, maybe things would have turned out differently. Night after night I had tortured myself with the look of his face mangled into the asphalt outside of Bart’s. I, too, had those nightmares that shook me awake screaming.

_I just wish that Sherlock wouldn’t make himself go through that alone._

My face flushes even more at the thought of Sherlock alone for those two years. I know he did it for a good cause. I know he did it specifically for me, but I don’t even know what he did for the two years he was gone.

Even after a year of living back under the same roof, I have yet to hear the stories of his travels (if you can call them that). Any time the topic is brought up, Sherlock leaves the room. Regardless of what was going on at the time- an experiment, a game of _Cluedo_ \- it didn’t matter. It was just as if I had pressed a switch in Sherlock’s mind, and his body automatically retreated from the situation. Sometimes he would hide in his room and lock the door. Other times he would leave out of the flat and be gone for hours on end.

_Those were the times that scared me._

I couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock was drowning his sorrows in the pub, or if he had finally broken and went back to the needle. I’d never seen him acting as if he had, but with Sherlock, I suppose it’s hard to know for sure.

I just wish Sherlock would suck it up, and let me help. Why not allow me to save him from himself the way he had done for me? I can’t imagine that honor has anything to do with it, not where Sherlock is concerned, but I just want Sherlock to- _Oh, I don’t know._

I shake my head and pull myself closer in my jacket.

_I really should have grabbed a thicker coat._

I decide that heading back to the flat would be my best bet. But, since I haven’t eaten, and I can guarantee that Sherlock hasn’t either, I stop at our favorite Vietnamese place down on Montague Street, and pick up the usual order before heading back to Baker Street.

The walk to Baker Street feels longer and more arduous than it usually does. I’m not usually alone walking these alleyways and busy streets, and an eerie sensation drapes itself on my shoulders.  I hear a can shift in the dark.

I turn quickly, only to find no eyes watching me, and when I turn back forward I see no dark shadows blocking my way. Nothing in this area that should constitute danger, and yet my hair still stands up straight on my neck.

“ _When you walk with Sherlock, you see the battlefield…”_

Mycroft hadn’t been lying, I found. Although Sherlock has the uncanny ability to find the strange beauty in ugliness, he can also find the imminent, yet usually invisible evil that lurks in every shadow and crevice.

_Let’s just hurry home, Mr. Watson._

I pick up my pace just enough to cause my heart to speed in tempo and my breath to be cut shorter with each step. Eventually though, I do find Baker Street, and with a few more steps, 221B.

Frozen fingers unlock the door, and numb feet climb the stairs into the flat. After opening the door, I find Sherlock up and about, testing the ability of some horrid-smelling acid to disintegrate papillae off of a set of tongues that Molly had delivered less than a week ago. _The things this man does for fun._

“I’m back.”

Sherlock answers without raising his eyes from his experiment, “I see that.”

In a huff, I place the order on the table and divvy up the meal. “I want you to eat Sherlock.”

“I had coffee this morning. That’s enough intake to last me the day.”

I smile, “Perhaps, but you did also lose some blood this afternoon, so I suggest you listen to your doctor before he calls another one that won’t put up with your shit.” I challenge him with a cocked eyebrow.

Much to his chagrin, Sherlock realizes that I will make good on my threat and decides to cover the experiment and wash his hands of the chemical/biological reside. He then picks up his share and finds refuge in his chair, picking at the noodles as if that will make them disappear.

I break the silence, “So,” I take a deep breath as if about to dive into a pool of resistance, “are we going to talk about what happened?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, “Not if it can at all be helped.”

I can’t help but chuckle at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Sherlock, you and I both know that something is going on inside that little brain of yours. I’m your doctor and I am _telling_ you that I need to know what’s happening.”

“You may be a doctor, but certainly no therapist,” he retorts, staring me dead in the eye with those pale orbs of his.

“I have one on call- would you like me to connect her?” I threaten raising my mobile.

He narrows his eyes in spite, “And admit that you don’t know how to help, I don’t think you would.”

I start to tap the numbers of my therapist’s mobile and show him the screen. “Dare me to?”

His nostrils flare and he turns his head in defiance, “Fine.”

I know that this tactic is usually only effective with children, but working with Sherlock sometimes has its advantages.

“Alright then,” I begin. I look Sherlock in the eye and lift my chin, “Did your dreams start with that first one, or were there more before?”

Sherlock huffs out a haughty answer, “No.”

_Well that’s vague._

I feel my nose wrinkle as I think out my next set of questions. “Okay, so you’ve had them before? When? Before you came back to London?”

His body tenses up as if someone had prodded him with a needle of painful memories. He takes a moment of silence, and then opens his mouth, “Yes.”

_Closed-ended questions seem to do_.

“Were they always this bad?” I ask, putting the cup on the table and clasping my hands together in front of me. Sherlock lifts his face enough to show me his eyes, full of anger, and yet- perhaps something else. Something I haven’t seen in Sherlock Holmes before.

“No.”

_Finally, I’m getting somewhere_.

I lean forward and I can feel the sympathy glowing from my face. I had to see Sherlock in pain, but I’m glad that he’s answering.

“Did they just start becoming night terrors recently?”

He cocks his eyebrow and pauses, “Yes.”

_Time to try to get some real answers._

“What are they about?”

His body stills and his face completely turns away from me and stares at the opposing doorway. His jaws clench and I can see his breathing becoming labored. “Many things.”

“Do you want to be a little more specific? And by that, I’m not asking your opinion on the matter.”

There’s a pause of silence as Sherlock gathers his thoughts, and inhales deeply.

“They are normally about the events that happened during the two years I was gone. They are never the same situations; only similar participants.”

_Progress._

I feel a smile creep over my lips at the success, but it is then immediately replaced with concern and curiosity. “Do you want to tell me what happened those two years?”

Sherlock keeps his glare at the doorway, and I can see him putting pressure on his heels to push himself off of the couch.

“Nope!” I interrupt, putting my hand up to stop him. “Sherlock we _need_ to talk about this. You can’t keep running from it forever.”

Sherlock’s body falls completely still: no breath, no unconscious spasms, I can barely tell his heart is beating. All the color leaves Sherlock’s already pale features and his jaws clench even closer. I’m concerned he’s going to hold his breath until he passes out and successfully avoids the conversation.

“Sherlock?”

He mumbles something that begins with an M and ends with an R.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“ _Murder,_ John! That’s what I was up to! Is that what you want to hear?” He roars, his face red and his eyes wet. I feel my heart jump at his sudden change in personality. “I killed people in _cold-blood,_ John! I am no better than those who we investigate! I’m a _murderer_!”

The strain of his confession is branded on him, and his guilt emanates from his body like a solar flare. I look at him closer. The lack of sleep is tattooed under his eyes and it made more prominent by the crimson in his cheeks. He’s covered in a light sweat that has materialized over the last few sentences, expressing the stress his mind is going through. His breath is catching in his throat and I can see his body trembling.

_I can’t believe this._

“ _What?”_

“You _heard_ me, John!” he spits, “I murdered people! I became an assassin of my own design! Tell me that’s what you wanted to hear!”

I can tell that shock is painted on my face, and I choke as I speak, “Were they… Innocent?”

Sherlock jerks his face towards mine and looks me up and down before speaking, “No…”

_Relief. He hadn’t gone COMPLETELY mad._

“What crimes had they committed?”

He inhales and I can see his face begin to regain its natural color from the sudden outburst of energy, “They were all a part of Moriarty’s plan. Those two years, I was diffusing Moriarty’s web, one strand at a time. Cutting them all loose one- by- one.” He said enunciating each point with his hands.

“The assassins.” It was less of a question and more of a realization. He had spent two years, alone, killing those that were meant to kill us. (I had known about the assassins. It had been the only excuse he had given me for his absence.)

_No wonder he’s so broken up about it._

“Tell me more.” I look into his eyes, longing to know the truth. “Please.”

Sherlock looks towards me with a pain, a _fear_ , I’ve never seen in him before. As he begins to talk I can see the trembling in his lips get more pronounced and almost causes him to stop. I have to imagine that Sherlock had wanted to express this grief for a very long time, and the longer he speaks, the more riled up he gets, until at one point, I see tears forming in his eyes. He lets the pain of the last three years pour from his lips, a release of words that obviously is loosening the chains from around him.

“There were also times, when I was-” he pauses and chokes back whatever pain the memories were bringing up.

“You were captured, weren’t you?” Again, less of a question, more of a definition of events.

He looks me in the eye and then drops his gaze while nodding his head in agreement.

“Yes. They did not know who I was, though, or I surely would not have made it out alive, but even so…” He trails off while he looks at the floor.

_“Even so”, which insinuates that the end result was not much more pleasant than the former statement._

“They tortured you.”

A silence falls in the room, until the slightly-less-than-silent patter of singular tears fall one by one onto the carpet.

Sherlock inhales a long, shuddering breath, all without raising his face from the ground.

“Yes.”


	4. Peak

John doesn’t seem to take the news very well. At first he goes silent, letting the information seep into his mind. Then, almost like clockwork, I can just about literally see smoke vacate his ears as his mind begins to work.

“ _Dammit Sherlock!_ ” He leaps out of his chair and throws his hands to his hair, pulling at it trying to control his anger, “Dammit! Sherlock, I should have been there with you! You should never have gone alone! How could you be so _stupid_?”

The word catches my attention and I feel my temper flaring. _“Stupid?_ John, you think that saving your life was _stupid?”_

 _“No,_ I think going _alone_ was stupid!” He spits.

“What? I-” My mouth won’t move as fast as my anger wills it, so I stammer, “How-how could you be so obtuse?! You do _realize_ , _John_ , that _every single person_ that was there was trying to _kill_ you, correct?” The more I speak, the louder my voice becomes, booming, enunciating every point with spite and a slap of fingers against my palm. Blood creeps up my neck and begins to paint my cheeks.

“Maybe it has _slipped_ past your intellect, but these people had memorized your face, your voice, the way you walk in the morning, the people you to whom you spoke on a daily basis, the places you went, how many women you brought home in a single evening, these people were not _Amateurs,_ John! How would it have been _possible_ to bring you half way across the world to a place where _everyone_ is actively trying to end your life, just to not be alone? These people weren’t just after _you,_ John.” At this his eyes open wider and he stops his seething, “ Weren't you paying attention? They were assigned to not only initiate _your_ death, but also those of DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson! Did you want _their_ blood on your hands?! Would their still hearts have made you feel more secure with me?”

 Breathing hard, I can feel my face beaming heat and my cheeks dampen with sentiment as I scream at the one man I tried to protect more than anyone else.

“What would you have had me do, _John_?” I rub a hand at my face to eliminate any proof of emotion that may be residing on it, “I did what I had to! I eliminated every threat on your lives and came back as soon as I could to London! What more could I have d-”

I can’t finish my sentence, for John lunges across the no-man’s-land between us and shoves me into the back of my chair, wrapping his arms around my torso with such strength I can feel my ribs bend from the pressure.

I’m caught off-guard and I can feel the breath catch in my throat. “J-John?” I look down and all I see is fading dark blonde hair pushing against my chest. “John, are you alright?” I hear the tone in my voice adjust from rage to worry.

His body trembles against mine and I feel the front of my button-down dampen. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry! I never - _sob-_ realized! I’m so _-sob-_ so sorry!” He heaves a shaky breath, “I didn’t know.”

I’ve never held anyone while they’ve cried, much less someone I cared about, so I rely on I’ve seen families do in St. Bart’s morgue (that’s probably a little disturbing now that I think about it) and place my arms around him, petting his head and holding his shoulders.

“John, it’s- it’s alright. What do you mean? I knew what I was doing. It’s not your fault.”

He pushes his face farther into my sternum as if trying to make a point but only further hinders my ability to breathe, “You told me that you did it to protect me. But you – _sob-_ never told me what that meant. Sherlock, you were _-sob-_ so alone! I should have helped you _–sob-_ somehow.”

I inhale as far as I can with the constricted space I have, “John, you know there was nothing you could do. Please, stop crying. There’s nothing to fix. I did what I had to, and you are safe. That’s all that has ever mattered to me. If put in the same situation, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.”

John continues to weep into my silk shirt, and I can feel the bruising beginning to blossom around my torso, but instead of pushing him away, I instinctively pull him closer to me. I can feel his hair brush against my chin and can smell the spices of not-entirely-washed-out shampoo as it permeates through the heat of his skin.

For a reason I can’t explain, my voice lowers- both in volume and in pitch- to a velvety hum; almost a purr. “John, please. I’m sorry that I hurt you for so long, but am not sorry for my actions. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe, because I-” my throat grows tight with emotion. I’ve never actually said those words out loud.

Sure, I’ve thought them over and over. Especially in the cells of Alsalem, Iran, where I was tortured and nearly starved to death until I could escape. Every night there, I imagined telling John what I’d done for him; that I wanted to live forever with him; that I _loved_ him, because it was all true.

I might not have known exactly what it meant to love, but I knew what it felt to be with John, and I deduce that they are, in fact, relatively similar.

I place my long fingers on the back of his head, cradling him closer to me.

“John, I-” I inhale deeply willing myself to take a leap of faith into the chasm of unknown emotion, but before I can force the words out, my logic takes over and squashes my heart. “John, I care about you. More than I thought I was able to.”

_Well that wasn’t what I meant to say, but I suppose that should say enough._

John’s sobbing ceases and his body stiffens.

I can feel my breath catch in my throat and my eyes dilate in alarm. _Oh no, what have I done?_

John releases his grip on my back and raises his head to look straight at me.

Flustered, I stammer, “John, I- I understand if you don’t feel the same-”

He presses his thumb against my lips effectively ending my rambling.

“Shut up.”

I can feel cold shift from my chest and into my stomach. At least he’s not asking about my incarceration anymore, but this is absolutely worse.

_Oh God. I’ve ruined everything. What have I-_

Before another second has ticked by on my watch, John lifts himself up and presses his lips to mine.

My body is filled with warmth which melts my mind and numbs my body, rendering me absolutely useless.

My first instinct is to pull away. I’ve never been this close to another human before; but it’s _John_. I’ve imagined this scene over and over in those cells; in the insufferable heat that threatened my life. Every day since my fall off of Bart’s I have imagined this day, but I never envisioned the dream coming into fruition.

My mind tells me to pull away and save myself, because being alone is what protects me. But this heat radiating from my chest, pouring throughout my entire body refuses to not reciprocate John’s action. I close my eyes and push into John. I cup my hand around the nape of his neck, pressing his lips into mine. His mouth opens under the pressure and he slides his tongue into my mouth and I can’t help but gasp from the contact. His lips taste sweet, seasoned with the saline of his tears, but regardless, I doubt that even something from the Garden of Eden could compare.

John pushes himself up closer towards me, perched on his knees, elongating his body as far as it can stretch. He pushes his mouth into mine and I return the action. I can feel his cheeks, damp with sorrow, brush up against mine. His hot breath fills my lungs, and I feel a high no drug has ever supplied me with. I feel my heart pounding in my chest, trying its hardest to break through my rib cage and out of my thoracic cavity.

“Oh, John.”

 _Did I just say that?_ I think I did, but I can’t bring myself to care.

 _Snogging. That’s what this is called. Snogging._ But this is a much more lovely action than “snogging”. The word itself sounds as if it had been fabricated by adolescents determined to create a dirty word out of boredom (completely possible).

This is beauty; this is art. I can hear the tympani of John’s heart resonating within me. I can feel the heat of his breath painting emotion on my face.

This is so much more than some stupid word. I’m not sure what it is- I’m not sure I have the vocabulary to describe it- but this is something amazing, and wonderful, and so _John._

John finally breaks his lips from mine and pulls his face away. I slowly open my eyes and stare in disbelief at my best friend. Suddenly, I feel my heart palpitate out of control and I clutch my hand to my chest.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” I can hear the worry in John’s shaky voice.

I push on my pectoral muscles, willing my heart to stay still, but it refuses with spite and only beats harder.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think; at least not about anything but the muscles spasming out of control in my torso.

  _Did John just kiss me?_ _Did we just step over that line? Oh my God, John. My John…_

“I-” I stammer clutching at my shirt even tighter, “I think I-I’m going into cardiac arrest!”

John tilts back on his heels and laughs heartily at my pain.

“You’re not even forty yet, Sherlock. I highly doubt it,” he smirks.

I gasp, “Then what’s going on? I’ve never felt-” Then it dawns on me. _Hormones_. I can feel my pupils are dilated, obviously my heart rate is elevated, my body is trembling, and I’m slightly sweating from every pore. I’m feeling… _Love_? Dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin to be exact, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt _anything_ this intensely in my life.

This is too much; far too much. I can feel my mind about to explode in my head from all the data I’m unconsciously taking in.

_John Hamish Watson:_

_Eyes: dilated. Blue. God, the bluest things I’ve ever seen. He also needs sleep judging from the bags._

_Mouth: pulled tight and swollen from crying and kissing. Could I kiss them again?_

_Ears: elevated blood flow._

_Pulse: beating at approximately 90 beats a minute; obviously elevated._

_Why can’t I read anything but his body?!_

I push myself up and out of my chair, unknowingly still holding onto my chest.

“Sherlock?”

I turn on my heel and when I see John kneeling on the ground, I have to lean against the bookshelf, successfully knocking Oxford’s Dictionary and the first volume of an encyclopedia set from their perch to the ground with a deep _thud_.

“Sherlock, mate? Are you alright?”

_He’s saying words, right? Maybe I should respond._

“What?” _Well, that was eloquent._

John stands up and slowly walks towards me palms out, “Are you alright? You’re trembling.”

I stand up as straight as possible and walk (stumble) past him and grab my long coat.

“What? Yes. I’m fine. I’m just going to walk on a go- wall on a gock- Jesus! I’m going on a walk!” I huff out in frustration and nearly step too close to the door to open it.

I step (stagger) down the stairs in as much of a hurry as I can muster and slam the door to 221B Baker Street as I venture into the chilled Autumn air.

I can almost feel steam rise form my flushed cheeks in the brisk environment. A night walk will do me good I think.

 _Well_ that _was embarrassing._

 

***

 

I almost wish that I had taken a video of that. If I had, I would be able to re-watch it over and over until I could finally grasp and understand what just happened.

Sherlock just stormed out of the door, but I have to imagine it was more out of embarrassment than fury.

_Sherlock Holmes? Embarrassed?_

I laugh at myself and then the humor falls from my face.

“I just kissed Sherlock Holmes,” I announce to no one in particular. “I just kissed… a bloke.”

The words taste like vinegar on my tongue. _Am I… Gay?_

“Well let’s think about this,” I again state to the empty flat.

I’ve kissed a lot of women (maybe not _a lot_ , but more than a few), but nothing was ever as intense as that just was. I’ve never felt like I was pouring all that I was into another human before five minutes ago.

Maybe there’s something in the familiarity that allows a kiss between those of the same sex to be able to expose even more of themselves.

_Maybe? I don’t even know what to think about it all._

Maybe I’m not actually gay, because I’ve never found men (let’s be honest, we’re pretty foul creatures if you think about it) attractive. But Sherlock on the other hand, is a specimen all of his own. His body, alabaster and smooth, reminds me of the statues in Rome. I had visited there once, in my days at Uni, but even those masterpieces, showered in adoration of a thousand years, paled in comparison to the real thing.

I relax and assure myself that regardless of the sexual orientation of the situation, Sherlock Holmes was the only person who had ever made this old worn heart of mine sing.

_Well that’s poetic._

Although I have to admit, I have never seen anything as exciting and hilarious as watching _The_ Sherlock Holmes stumble all over himself and his words. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen the man slip up the emotion on his face, but _embarrassment_ is definitely a new (and attractive) look on him.

I laugh at myself again and slip into the kitchen to make a cuppa while humming to myself. The beginning of “Spring” by Vivaldi, I think. I never know for certain what all Sherlock plays in his moods, but I think that name rings a bell with the melody. I catch myself as grab a second cup out of habit, but I assume that Sherlock will be out longer than the tea will stay warm so I decide to put it back in its home on the shelf.

As I spin back into the sitting area, I relax slowly into my chair and stare at the opposing furniture. A smile reveals itself over my lips as I slowly sip my tea, staring out into the black window across the way.

_Even if that’s the only kiss I ever get, I will pay to see Sherlock’s face like that again._

Then the smile fades from my face in an instant. I hear the creak of a window. Too far to be in Sherlock’s room, but too close for comfort.

_It must be in my room._

I silently place my cup on the side table and stalk to the door. I can hear the patter of footsteps on my floor and it makes me sick.

 _Some stranger_ _in my room_.

I refuse to expose myself to them unarmed, and I can’t run up to grab my Sig, so I retreat into the kitchen to grab a rather menacing-looking knife from its sheath on the counter. I press my ear to the door of the flat to continue listening.

I can hear at least one man (about 90 kilo from the heavy fall of his footstep, he has a standard and measured gait, so perhaps military?) walking around the room upstairs shuffling about in my belongings. Then I hear voices. Too quiet and far to be able to distinguish the words, but now I can at least count the number of assailants.

 _One._ This must be the first man I heard, since he sounds as if he’s closer to the stairwell.

 _Two._ The second voice is higher, yet not feminine, so it must be his apprentice, or some other younger colleague.

 _Three._ This voice is deeper. It sounds authoritative, almost as if he were the ringleader, which is very possible.

_Shit! I’m over outnumbered._

I pause and try to determine the best way to approach the issue.

_I can’t run up there guns blazing without a gun. But then again, I can’t just- Jesus! Mrs. Hudson!_

I remember hearing her downstairs before the argument between Sherlock and I began.

 _I have to get her out of here_.

The solution presents itself as I hear a clatter in my room as one of them had opens the closet and is surprised by the chest I keep in there. I always keep it precariously perched on a small dresser so that the noise of it falling on someone would wake me up if someone besides me ever tried to open the closet. Paranoid, I’m sure, but then again, war never really leaves a man.

In the clamor, the deeper-voiced man hollers at the perpetrator, and it sounds as if they have started to sift through the things. I take the opportunity to slide open the door and slip down the stairs, avoiding the singular step that always creaks under pressure.

I peer around the corner of the stairs, hyper-aware, but see nothing. I click Mrs. Hudson’s door open and whisper her name.

_Perhaps she’s asleep?_

As if she could actually sleep through an argument between Sherlock and I. Regardless, I decide to search for her.

She is nowhere to be found in the kitchen, sitting room, or bedroom, so I hope that she decided to ignore our feud and leave Baker Street for the time being. Perhaps she went out for a late movie with Mrs. Turner. That would make things easier.

I slip back up the stairs to find that the offenders in the flat. I ease up to the door frame assessing the situation when I feel a firm slap on my back propelling me through the doorway and onto the floor of the flat.

“Look what we have here! A nosy Doctor Watson!”

The fact that this stranger knows my name (it has never turned out to be a good thing) sends a shiver into my stomach. I turn and back myself into the wall so that I can see the entire group on the flat.

_So far, so right._

Three men are positioned in front of me. The man who had slapped my back was the first into my room judging by his heavy set nature and his voice. He looks like a right thug, with a shaved head and a face sprinkled with scars. As he smiles at me I can see where he is missing his left lateral incisor and canine, probably from a fight in prison. He is ex-military, I can see it in his stance, but also an ex-con (and white supremacist) judging by his hand tattoos. But there’s one I don’t recognize on his left wrist. It looks like a small eye with the letter “M” in place of a pupil.

I quickly glance across the room and on the other side of the flat was a thinner, yet still built younger man stood by Sherlock’s window that he played his violin at most often, brandishing a small handgun, barely bigger than his hands. He must be new at this breaking-into-houses-thing since it looks as if he was the one who was crushed by my case and his hands are shaking (barely visibly) while holding the gun. Lo and behold, has the exact tattoo on his left wrist, remarkably newer than the former’s, hardly noticeable under his cuffed sleeve.

Then I turn to the man toying with Sherlock’s skull near the mantle. Although I know his voice is deep, his body wouldn’t allude to that. He’s a man of small stature, standing only about 170 cm, but an air of arrogance and control surrounds him. He turns his face towards me and a sly smile stretches across his face. I try to read him, but he interrupts me before I can get anything farther than noticing he comes from money judging by his suit.

“Well, Doctor Watson, can I call you John?” He picks the skull completely off of the mantle and bounces it in his hands. “How are you today, my friend?” he asks playfully.

I stay silent as he walks towards the middle of the room, shortening the distance between us.

“I said, ‘How are you?’, John.” Before I can retort, the largest man takes this chance to grab me by my collar and hoist me up to my feet, placing his weapon against my jaw.

“There! That should help! So John?”

“I’m bloody brilliant, obviously.” I spit. “Who are you?”

He tuts me and turns away, “I’m the one who gets to ask questions here, friend.”

“You’re no friend of mine- _mate_.”

He turns towards me again, and nods at the thug behind me. A cloud of red passes through my vision as the butt of his gun makes contact with my face and I hit the ground against my will.

“Play nice Doctor Watson! You’ll hurt my feelings otherwise.” He smiles as he walks closer to me, “So Doctor John Watson. Do you know who I am?”

To save myself from another smack to the face, I avoid reiterating the fact I had just asked him that question, “No.”

His grin grows, “You should! You were so _very_ acquainted with my dear big brother. He seemed to have a fancy for you, you know.”

I cock my head in an attempt to pull any kind of facial recognition I can, but then, like a ton of bricks off of a building, the resemblance hits me dead on.

I smile almost in spite of myself.

“Hello, Mr. Moriarty.”

 

 


	5. Ships of Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the length of this chapter, it's been incredibly slow at work and when bored, I let my mind wander. Also- there's a bit of a Fullmetal Alchemist reference towards the end for those who like it. Enjoy!

I brace myself against the wind half-way pushing me through London on my way back to Baker Street. John wouldn’t even be able to argue that I had my collar up to “look cool” thanks to this weather. Although I have to quite admit, I fare a considerable amount better in the cold than in the heat.

I cringe at the thought of the cell and push the notion out of my mind with a wave of my hand.

My mind is still dancing around the fact that John and I just commenced in something that is predominately saved for only those that love each other.

 _Could John really_ love _me?_

I am an incredibly hard person to care about, I’m sure. I’m erratic, rude, and sometimes downright despicable. I have a checkered past and a lack of empathy. There are so many things that are wrong with me, I can’t even begin to understand how someone as respectable and pure as John Watson would be able to stand it.

_I drugged him for an experiment, for God’s sake!_

Although, I suppose, if John is willing to forgive that, it really shows his true dedication.

I touch my fingertips to my smile recreating the memory of John’s lips against mine again and push myself into the door of our flat.

Then, as if ice water was poured throughout my body, I stop frozen in my tracks at the look of Mrs. Hudson’s open door.

_Something’s wrong._

I curse having left the flat in such a hurry as to not grab my gun (the one John doesn’t know about obviously), and listen close for any movement in either flat.

Mrs. Hudson’s flat is silent. No telly on, and no shuffle of clothes as if someone were inside; perhaps she left during the argument between John and I- she tends to do that, in order to prevent herself from getting involved.

I turn my head back to the stairwell.

_What about John?_

I have to pace myself from running straight into the flat, but when I push my ear to the door, I hear nothing but silence throughout. I push the door open about 5 centimeters open and check for any wires that may have been placed on it. Thankfully, there aren’t any and I push the door wider but can’t stop myself from falling back at the sight.

The flat is torn apart: books strewn about as if someone were looking desperately for something; shattered glass all on the kitchen floor; wind moving the curtains through broken windows; and then a sign.

I’ve never seen this signature before: a red eye with an “M” in the pupil. No gang or drug ring I have ever followed uses it. I lift myself shakily off of the floor to touch the paint and test its consistency- I might be able to distinguish the type and work my way backwards from there. To my horror, the paint is not yet dried, and when I rub it between my fingers, I can place the texture instantly: blood.

I swivel around and look for anymore traces of the fluid. On the second take, I see crimson spattered on the floor in distinct patterns and I start to piece together what happened.

Someone (presumably John) was hit with a blunt object throwing them to the ground where a spit of blood touched the carpet. The drops surrounding that are from higher up and farther out, so whoever was hit was drawn back up and began to speak, spitting blood as they did so.

I follow the trail to the wall with my eyes and find that the person who was hit was then cut open (not a very deep cut, only enough to induce pain and blood) against the wall with the insignia on it, judging by the small splash of crimson and the slight nick against the wallpaper.

Then my heart stops and my knees give out on me, causing my body to crash to the floor.

_This can only mean one thing…_

“John?” I cry somewhere between panic and heartbreak. “ _John?_ John are you here?!”

I scratch at the floor in an attempt to push myself up, “John! Answer me!”

I scrabble to my feet and half-run-half-stumble up the stairs in desperation, “John, I swear! Answer me you arse!”

I swing the door open and find that his room, too, has been ransacked, although there doesn’t seem to be any signs of a struggle.

I through my hands through my hair, gripping hard to stop myself from panicking, to no avail.

I fall against the doorway, and can feel my heart stopping and my panicked breath choking me. “Oh my God. John!” I hear my own voice break at his name.

_I need help._

My hands fumble through the pocket of my coat and pull out my mobile. I dial and my desired contact picks up on the second ring.

“What do you want?”

“Mycroft!” I can hear the alarm in my voice although I try my best to conceal it.

His voice takes on an anxious tone, “Sherlock? Are you alright? What’s-”

“I was out for a few hours, someone broke into our flat. They took John and he’s hurt. I don’t know who it was, nor what organization it is. I’ve never seen this signature. John’s-” my voice catches in my throat, so I swallow, hard- “John’s blood is everywhere!”

I can feel myself breathing erratically, and try to resume my façade of control.

“Sherlock, I’ll be there in ten minutes. Are you armed?”

I look around John’s room and pull myself up to reach in his bedside drawer. “I am now.”

“I’ll be there soon.” He disconnects.

I feel sick. My heart has gone from one extreme emotion to another and in its wake, my body is falling apart.

_Sentiment is really the most egregious of sins._

I lean hard against the wall and pull out the mobile again.

“Sherlock?”

“Lestrade. John’s been taken. I need your help.”

 

***

 

 _I NEED to focus_.

I pull my hands through my unruly hair again and muster up the volition to go back down to the flat. When I do, my heart jumps again at the sight of John’s blood.

_Relax. Panic won’t save John._

I reevaluate the room once again, painting a picture of the scene before my eyes.

_One, two, three men._

_One tallest, heavy, wide stance, strong, was the one who hit John._

_Second thinner, light, young based on the shuffling of his feet, new, wasn’t useful to operation._

_Third, smallest, was the one to cut John and the wall, most likely head of group._

_John wouldn’t have come out without a weapon._

I turn my focus to the floor.

_Something, something, ah ha!_

I find a spare knife slid up under the couch as if it had been knocked out of John’s hand. I inspect it only to find that it’s clean which means that they had gotten the best of John before he had had the opportunity to use it. I throw it back to the ground in frustration.

_This doesn’t help! Ugh! Now what were they looking for?_

I sift through the books on the floor. No pages are folded over, nor are there books bunching over the other books’ pages. This means they didn’t just fall open. They instead look like every one had been turned to a specific page and placed on the ground.

 _What’s the common denominator_?

I read through every page of seventeen open books and memorize the contents and after taking out the obvious similar words, I compare every term.

Three words match on every page: _SHIP, LAST, and VOYAGE._

_Alright, he’s insinuating the last voyage of a ship. Could it really be this easy?_

I leave the books, satisfied with the information they have given me and turn my attention to the emblem on the wall.

_What is the significance of the “eye”?_

I run through my mind palace pulling any and all information related to eyes that I can off of the shelves.

I pull out everything medically-related and throw it to the side and am left with information regarding symbols and ancient cultures.

Several things pop out:

_Eye of Horus: royal power and protection._

_Evil Eye: with one look, can take souls, kill, harm, etc. Is believed to be warded off by talismans._

_Talismans._

I open my eyes and scrutinize the floor again.

_If this person is compelled by cyphers, he must have left one. He wouldn’t have been able to help himself. But WHERE?_

I feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I comb through the room even further.

“Where would he expect me to look?!” I ask the empty room in exasperation.

I flip open my violin case to find nothing out of the ordinary. I spin on my heel and move into my room. It, too, has all of my belongings thrown about in disarray, but I can’t see where anything has been taken, nor anything that doesn’t belong.

_Sentiment, sentiment- what does he think matters to me?_

I gaze back out into the sitting room and study all of the assets.

_Billy._

I nearly run over to the mantle and snatch the skull from its place and turn it over in my hands. As expected, I locate a small manila envelope shoved in the pocket of his empty cranium. I slowly place my smiling friend back on the mantle and direct my full attention to the packet in my hands. I feel metal hiding inside, and discover some small writing on the front:

 _You’re getting the picture. Good luck, Mr. Holmes_.

I turn it over and open the envelope slowly, preparing myself for anything that may jump out. When no fireworks erupt, I pour its contents onto my left hand, and feel my knees buckle underneath me:

John’s Dog Tags.

I drop the envelope and feel dread setting into my chest, but will myself to be impartial.

_What does this mean? This is the talisman. This is what protects its holder from evil. He is stating that John is not protected from his wrath. John is in some serious danger._

I can’t hold back the heaving in my chest as my eyes start to water. I push my back to the wall under the mantle and clutch my knees up to my chest, personifying the terrified child I feel like, clutching John’s dog tags with enough force to cause the imprints of the metal on my hands to ache.

“Oh my God, John. I’m so sorry.”

I hug my legs tighter to my torso in an attempt to calm the tremors in my chest. The rush of emotion makes my head throb, so I just place it on my knees, sensing the pitiful tears of desperation slide down my cheeks.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“You’re only going to be sorry if we don’t find him in time.”

Lestrade’s voice, although familiar, still startles me. I rub my face dry on my sleeve then raise my eyes to see him standing in the doorway taking in the scene.

“Is that-?” he asks pointing at the cypher on the wall. He touches it to test his theory, and the shock on his face is evident. “Dear God.” He rubs his face with his clean hand and changes his glance back towards me. “How much?”

I look back around the room and judge the volume. “Probably only about two deciliters, if that. The cut was shallow, I think, but it looks a lot worse because of how spread out it is. Well, that and-” I point to the symbol on the wall, “that.”

Lestrade stares at the symbol and then turns back to me with a confused look on his face until I realize that he’s not staring at me, but at the pitiful shape sitting on the ground instead. I break my face out of his gaze.

He paces over towards me, but before he can reach his hand out to touch my shoulder, his attention is drawn somewhere else.

“Hold up, what’s this?” He slowly picks up the discarded envelope and pours out a microchip into his palm. My curiosity is peaked and I pick myself off the ground and move to examine his discovery.

“It’s a chip. It looks like it might fit in a phone memory slot, perhaps?” I look to Lestrade interested. I pull my phone back out of my pocket and we both stare it for a moment as Mycroft walks into the flat and up the stairs.

“Sherlock, care to bring me up to date?”

I shift my glance to him for a moment as he enters the flat, but continue to stud the chip.

“Mycroft,” I nod, “there were three men. They played around with John a little bit before and carrying him out unconscious. That-” I point absently at the symbol, “is John’s.”

I can feel Mycroft’s stare bore into me, but when I ignore it, he changes focus towards the painting. I hold John’s dog tags up with as steady a hand as I can manage, “He left these and this chip wishing me ‘good luck’. I think this might be his clue, his cypher.” I spin to look at him, glaring, then to the image on the wall.

“Now looking at this symbol, I can only start to assume it has specific meaning. Now _eyes_ \- in the historical context, eyes normally represent an evil that watches and preys on the human race. This design could either mean that the culprit is watching John and I, waiting for the chance to take his wrath out upon us, or that he means us a harm we cannot avoid. Either way is not a pleasant end, I’d say. Evil eyes are only deterred by talismans, trinkets filled with luck and good fortune. This,” I say holding up the tags again, “is the talisman he left me. Which makes me believe that I am the real target, and that John is merely a tool to draw me out. But why now? I’ve been alive for over a year, why choose now to attack?”

“Maybe he was gathering forces and needed that much time?” Lestrade interjects, “Anyways, how do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

I shoot him a look of disdain and almost snarl in aggravation. “It’s _obvious_! Look at the shoe patterns in the carpet. Look how the weight pushed against the ground, how the stances are positioned. Look at the sizes of the prints. Regardless, a woman wouldn’t commit a crime like this. If she were to steal John, she would have made more of a show, made it more heartbreaking to look upon. Perhaps more blood, more emotional motive. No, this is the work of a man.”

I begin to pace back and forth in the limited clean space on the floor studying all of the facts.

“Although he’s matured, he’s still younger than I am. Probably in his early thirties. He’s matured in most ways, but his anger and passion for wrath are still vibrant, making me believe him younger. Now what does this mean, I wonder?” I glance back at the books scattered on the floor searching for more relevant clues. “ _Ship, last_ and _voyage_. Those three words are present on every page that these books were opened up to. Now let’s take that at face value. A ship’s last voyage. Normally, a ship’s last voyage would be its retiring one, but no- this man is too dramatic to believe in happy endings. He must be eluding to an end more disastrous, perhaps a storm.” I feel my face brighten into a smile I’m not entirely sure should be there.

“That’s it! The storm is the eye!” I point my attention to the painting again. “The eye of the storm is always the most damage occurs because it’s the most dangerous part of the storm. That would make this eye, this _eye of the storm_ , the one who creates havoc on those that enter into its path! Now ‘M’. It’s placed in the heart of the eye, meaning that whomever this represents is the rage that instigates this storm. What ‘M’ wants me hurt?” I steeple my fingers under my chin and sit in my chair wracking my brain for any enemy that had the letter ‘M’ in their name.

“You’re going through the list of people you’ve pissed off? Ha! We’ll be here all night, Sherlock!” Lestrade scoffs.

Mycroft peaks up for the first time since he’s walked in, “There is always the possibility…” He drops it on an odd tone.

I shift my narrowed eyes towards him and snarl, “No! I made damn sure of it! He’s _dead_. I _watched_ him do it.”

“Yes, well John would have sworn the same thing about you, _brother dear_.” He sneers.

I erect myself and face him in a challenging stance, feeling my upper lip twitch with ire, “Yes, _brother dear_. However, falling off a building is a tad less hands-on than a bullet to the brain! Mycroft, I spent _two years_ of my life destroying the empire he had created! You think I’d have been able to do that if he weren’t as dead as the world thought I was?”

My brother tilts his umbrella against the floor and swivels it, “As the D.I. stated, perhaps he had to regroup, and only found the ability to do so after you had come back.”

“No, _Mycroft_ ,” I growl. “He is _dead_.”

Lestrade tries to break the tension and adds, “Perhaps you’re both right.”

“What?” Mycroft and I ask simultaneously, shooting him doubting faces.

“Now is not the time to try and play mediator, Lestrade,” I spit.

He waves his hands in dismissal, “No, I’m serious! Hear me out!” He travels to bisect the space between Mycroft and I, “Although _he_ might be dead, that doesn’t mean that his _ideas_ are.” He makes an effort to look me square in the eye. “Let’s say that someone idolized Moriarty. When Moriarty was taken from them, they probably lost interest in life until the _Great_ Sherlock Holmes came back to from the dead! When that happened,” at this point he turns to my brother to make his argument, “he took it upon himself to finish what Moriarty started. We see stuff like this in the Yard all the time.”

“He wants to bring Moriarty _back to life_ ,” I whisper to myself, uncaring if anyone else hears. “This means that this ‘copy-cat’ wants to bring Moriarty’s _plan_ back to life.”

“He may not have anything to do with the network you took down,” Mycroft adds. “This may be a solo mission, which would account for the length of time it took for him to gather forces.”

I glance back at the chip in Lestrade’s hand. “So, what do you think that is?”

Lestrade looks from me to the chip and then back, “I dunno, but there’s only one way to find out.”

Reluctantly, I pull out my mobile and slide the chip into a slot that seems to correlate in size.

The screen flashes while six times and then goes black before an animated picture of the cypher on the wall fades onto the screen. A voice, warped by machine, begins to speak.

“ _Hello, Sherlock Holmes. How lovely for joining us! We have a special broadcast just for you.”_

The insignia fades out and is replaced with a video of a man crumpled on the ground, hands praying before his face, bound with zip-ties, but his head is bent forward to where I can’t see his face. Either way, I don’t need to see it to recognize him immediately.

“John!” I can’t hold the exclamation in my mouth.

His face and jumper are bloodied, and judging by the bruises on his neck and face, he put up one hell of a fight.

 _Of course he did, idiot_.

I can see that most of the blood came from his nose and mouth, but I spot the little sliver in his jumper that produced the paint for the cypher on the wall. It doesn’t look like it’s presently bleeding, but I can imagine he’s still in pain from it.

Looking at his surroundings, I find that he’s lying on a wooden floor with a metal wall behind him.  The camera is obviously about three meters away from where John is lying, but is at about a meter off of the ground ( _perhaps on a table?_ ).

“ _Yes, Mr. Holmes. I have your lovely blogger right here with me. I promise I’ll take good care of him… For now…”_

I’m not actually sure if the connection is two way or if it’s a recording, but I beg the question and it catches in my throat,

“How do I know that he’s still alive and that this isn’t a staged video?”

I get my answer to both questions as the voice laughs and a small figure clad in black, face covered as well, crouches next to John’s curled body,

“ _I suppose it’s too much to ask you to trust me, so I’ll let Johnny here do the honors.”_

A black hand grips at John’s scalp and jerks it to show his face to the camera, lifting it slightly off of the ground. John unconsciously lets out a small groan as his face twists in pain. The figure then drops John’s head to the floor with a light thud, and John moans from the impact, curling his body tighter into a fetal position. The hand reaches back for John.

“ _Would you like me to do that again? I do find it rather entertaining!”_

“Enough!” I yell at the phone. This case (that’s what it is at this point) is doing _wonders_ for my patience. “Who are you and what do you want?”

The hand retracts and the figure walks out of the shot.

“ _Do you believe in fate, Mr. Holmes?”_

“You’re holding a man to ask me about my _beliefs_?” I ask incredulously.

“ _No, Mr. Holmes. I’m holding the only person who matters to you to ask you about your volition to save his life.”_

A shiver runs down my spine and feel my knees wobble.

“ _Mr. Holmes, do you believe in fate? The fact that we all have our ends that we can’t run from?”_

“Yes.” I answer blatantly. I’m not sure what his aim is, but I’m not willing to stake John’s life on his sanity.

“ _Well, Mr. Holmes, you’ve made a very bad habit of running from your fate. Those who die are meant to stay that way.”_

_So it is about my death._

“Death is rather boring, I must admit.”

“ _Mr. Holmes, let me tell you a story.”_ At this point, the shrouded figure walks back over to John, but only his hips down within the shot. _“Once there was a man with a vision of greatness. He was brilliant, brave, and was loved by everyone who met him. But one day, another man grew jealous of his charisma and talents and decided to take him to a rooftop and end his life. Instead of taking responsibility for his actions, the evil man tried to rewrite his fate and played dead to gain the sympathy of the masses.”_

“What?!” I exclaim. “Have you gone mad? Moriarty killed-”

“ _Don’t you DARE speak his name!”_ the voice interrupts. “ _You have no RIGHT to say his name. MY name…”_

I see Lestrade rub his face with his hand and mouth, _I knew it._

“Your name? I thought I was the only dead man walking.”

“ _You are. And Fate is not happy about it.”_

“What do you want me to do?” I’m tired of this game and I just want to find John.

“ _Finish the story, Mr. Holmes. Be the hero you want the world to think you are. But in the end, Mr. Holmes, everything is alchemy. Do you know the law of alchemy?”_

I feel my throat grow tight with emotion and I swallow hard to stifle it. “Equivalent Exchange.” I mumble.

“ _Exactly. You and I both know how this will end. The only question is whether or not you will be able to weather the consequences of your actions. A storm is coming, Mr. Holmes. Are you ready?”_

The screen then goes black and the cypher paints itself over the screen.

_This is it: the eye of the storm._

 

***

 

Shadows dance in my vision before I can fully draw it into focus. I feel my eyeballs bounce around in their sockets before I can get clear control on them and I sense consciousness slipping over me. The first thing that comes to my waking mind is something I’ve learned from Sherlock: to always catalogue as much about my surroundings before I am even fully conscious.

_Wood, metal, dark, cold._

I peel my eyes farther open and attempt look around. I find that the shape of the room looks like the cargo hold of a vessel.

_A ship? A cargo ship perhaps? No, it’s too empty._

Then a sharp pain runs through my brain, and I remember the blow to the back of my head that incapacitated me. I go to lift my hands to cradle my skull only to find that they are bound together with zip-ties. Tightly, I might add, as I can begin to feel the plastic cutting into my skin.

_Well, that’s bloody brilliant._

I look down and find that my feet are bound together, as well. Although not with zip-ties, but with shackles attached to an eye-hook on the floor near the wall.

_Seriously? This guy is even more dramatic than Sherlock._

The length of the chain is about a meter so I definitely won’t be going very far.

The cargo hold is absolutely empty besides a small table with a camera perched on top and a single chair in the middle of the hold. A singular door lies to my right, closed and locked, I imagine.

_I’m in a ship. An empty one at that. The ship is still at dock, since I’m not feeling the sway of the ocean yet. I can find my way out, back onto land, as long as I can get out of these shackles._

“Good Morning, Doctor Watson!”

His voice pierces against my ears and I recoil involuntarily. I look towards the noise and watch him as he creeps out of the entryway. He smiles a shark-smile as he closes the door behind him.

“Did you sleep well? It was definitely hard enough to put you to bed. You’ve got a lot of _spunk_!”

At the words, I begin to feel the achiness all around me reminding me how I fought against my assailants to no avail.

“Like a baby,” I breathe. “What do you want with me, Moriarty?”

He sits slowly on the chair and waves his hand at me, “Oh, please! Moriarty was my brother, call me Jesse- or Jess if you’re feeling cheeky!” He winks, and laughs at his own joke while he crosses his legs. “You see, John- you and I have a lot in common.”

“Ha! Enlighten me- _Jess_!” I spit, obviously I feel a little _cheeky_.

Jesse’s body tenses the slightest bit, but then relaxes once he remembers who’s in control of this situation. He ignores my demand with a cocked eyebrow, “Did you know that in nineteen-fourteen, if the R.M.S. Titanic would have hit the iceberg head-on, the ship and her passengers would have survived?”

At this point he stands up and walks slowly over to me. “However, instead of accepting his fate, the brilliant Captain Edward Smith chose to try and avoid it.”

He kneels in front of me, and grabs my chin before I can jerk it out of his way, my head throbbing at the pressure, “One. Fatal. Mistake.” Each word initiating a jerk to either side, leaving me lightheaded. His hand leaves my face and goes to flatten his hair. “We all have a fate, don’t you think, John? An end that we cannot possibly escape, no matter how hard we try?” He erects himself and moves towards the lonely chair, bending his head to speak to me as his sits, “Well as Fate would have it, when one _does_ try to escape it, she gets a little… _Testy_.”

He again crosses his legs and wraps his fingers around his knee, “You see, if Captain Smith had accepted the fate put before him, he would have saved countless lives! Of course, to save face and avoid his last voyage being one of disgrace, however, he decided to take his own way out. Fate has a funny way of putting us in our place, don’t you think? For Captain Smith, he died along with thousands of those he was charged with to keep safe.”

I manage to push myself up to a fully sitting position, ignoring the throbbing pain on my side, and stare directly at my captor’s eyes. Just like his brother, the younger Moriarty’s eyes are alight, not with joy, but with sheer madness. Their body language is so eerily similar, the family resemblance is intense.

 _I really should have recognized him before_.

“Is there a point to this history lesson, or may I leave?” I challenge with a cocked eyebrow.

The smile falls off of his face and his eyes narrow in fury.

_This is going to hurt._

He stands again and before the second is out is next to me with his hand on my right side, “Are you going to play nice or will I have to make you?” He smiles.

Before I can answer, I feel his fingers penetrate my flesh through a wound I was not aware was open, and I reluctantly let out a howl of agony. I gasp for the air that won’t come to my lungs, as he pushes his nails into the exposed muscle on my ribs.

“That’s what happens when you don’t play nice, John!” He whispers as he leans in closer to my face; eyes bulging out with madness. I recoil my body as far away from his hands as I can, glaring at him with a rage that makes it incredibly difficult to bite back on my tongue.

He sneers as he rises to his feet again, studying the crimson fluid coating his fingers. To my dismay, he places his tongue to one, licking my blood into his body.

“Hmm,” he hums, “Iron. You know, the Titanic was built with this, as are many ships. Such a rudimentary element. A basic metal so beautiful and so fundamental, and yet its true potential is always ignored.” He glances towards me again removing his fingers from his face. “Regardless.” He wipes the remnant blood on the handkerchief he then pulls from his suit.

“Are you ready to hear the story, John?”

 

 


	6. The Game

“Don’t you think we’re a little old for stories?” I scoff. If he shoves his fingers in me again, I might just pass out, and at least then I wouldn’t have to listen to his awful droning.

He smirks and skirts across the small space back to the chair.

“You will never be too old for the lessons they teach, my dear Watson.” He steeples his fingers under his chin and it unnervingly reminds me of Sherlock. “Now, John. What is the lesson we learned from the R.M.S. Titanic?”

“To watch out for the obvious,” I mock his matter-of-fact drone and am pleased to see his face fall a little at the jeering.

He narrows his eyes and angles his head to the side, “Yes, I suppose you are right, but what’s more is the fact that we learned to accept our fate when it is presented before us. Now back to what I was saying earlier, you and I are very similar, my friend. We both are no more than guard dogs: loving our masters and snarling at their enemies. Am I wrong?”

I remain silent, curious as to where this is going.

“Well, John. Our masters have a habit of beating us down, don’t they? Making us feel inadequate, lesser, insulting us at every turn. Oh, but when they praise us- oh, it’s a glorious day, isn’t it? To see a smile on our master’s face, made because of us?” He releases his hands and crosses them around his chest. “Oh, but the thing about guard dogs is, that eventually we get put to the test. One day, someone comes by and tests our volition to save our master’s life. Someone tests the difference between our love of our own life and that of our master.”

He turns away from me and stares at the far door, “You see… I wasn’t much of a guard dog, unfortunately. _He_ always thought I was weak. He wouldn’t give me the chance to prove my worth until it was too late. He made me _watch_!” His demeanor darkens drastically at the drop of these words. “He made me watch as I _failed_ him for the last time! I know how you felt that day, John: betrayed, confused, heartbroken. You and I are very similar as you see. Just guard dogs.”

 He pauses and shifts his position to study me. “Ah, but you, my friend; you’re a soldier. Bred and conditioned for bravery, for chivalry! _You_ make a charming guard dog indeed. Putting your life on the line for your master at every turn of the street; every case presents a new danger, as it would seem. Oh, but you _love_ it, don’t you? It makes you feel _worth_ something. Well, my friend, the time has come for you to accept your fate, or to try and avoid it.” He smiles wryly and puts his hands to his face in excitement.

“What do you mean?” I hear myself mumbling.

“We will see exactly what kind of guard dog you are, Doctor Watson.” He clasps his hands and leans back in the chair. “Have you ever heard the theory of ‘Equivalent Exchange’?”

I narrow my eyes, because now I know exactly where this is headed. “If I’m going to end up dead either way, why not just do it now and save us all the trouble?” I spit.

“Well that wouldn’t be any _fun_!” He answers coyly. “Besides, that’s not up to me to decide. It’s up to fate.”

“Oh? And how is that going to be the case?” I question, nearly rolling my eyes; trying to figure out _any_ way out of this that doesn’t involve my inevitable death, but coming up short of anything that might actually help.

“John, you _will_ die before this scene is played out. But taking the coward’s way out is no way for a dutiful guard dog, like yourself, to die. If your life ends by your own doing, the _Great_ Sherlock Holmes’s blood will be on your hands. Just keep that in mind.”

I feel ice in the pit of my stomach, and I can feel every hair on end. He smiles again, baring teeth in a maleficent grin.

“How did the Titanic sink, John?” The sickly cool that drenches his face is unnerving.

“She hit an iceberg, obviously,” I bark. _I’m done with this game. I’m through with playing._

He ticks his finger at me, “Not quite. Yes, she hit it, but it wasn’t the hit that caused the ship to fall. It was the _captain_ who made the wrong move.”

He stands up, stalks towards me and kneels, bringing his face only centimeters from mine, breathing words of contempt and foreshadowing,

“What will your move be, _Captain_ Watson?”

 

***

 

“What the _hell_ was that?” Lestrade spits. “And what the _hell_ is this ‘exchange’ nonsense?”

I silently place the phone on the table and travel to the window, staring at the street below. I breathe words barely louder than a whisper, but they fill the empty room with their animosity.

“Equivalent Exchange is the fundamental premise for alchemy. Alchemy is the ancient science that brought about the idea of changing lead into gold; I’m sure you recognize that notion.” I turn away from the window, but don’t raise my voice, “The idea is that in order to gain anything, you must first give something of equal value in exchange. However, instead of transforming lead into gold, he wants me to exchange my life for the life of John. Barter for what I hold most dear, as you would have it. This time though, I won’t be able to fake it, I don’t imagine. It won’t be as easy as jumping off of a building and faking my own death. I’ll have to make more than John believe it.” I feel emotion constricting my throat and cease speaking, swallowing hard to push it down.

A heavy silence and apprehension fills the room. After a moment too long, Lestrade’s anger is the first to break it.

“We just got you _back_! I’m not going to just stand by and what you take your life, _again_! Sherlock, whatever you need to ensure both yours and John’s safety, The Yard will give you. To hell with protocol!” His face is blossoming red from rage as he bellows in the otherwise silent room.

_And John calls me a drama queen._

“There might not be much that you can do, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft adds, with as much trepidation as I think he can muster. “First thing is first, Sherlock. We need to find this man and find out where he is holding John. Judging from the background, I’d have to assume that John is in a ship of some sort. Not many buildings come with wooden floors and metal walls. I will have one of my people trace the phone signal and watch the CCTV footage to see if we can follow their trail.”

“I agree, it must be a ship, but we need to know what kind and where. I think these words,” pointing to the books with my right hand, “are synonymous for myself and the ship. It sounded empty from the resonance of John’s voice, so we’re going to be looking for one that is either out of commission, has recently been purchased in the last year, or is scheduled for demolition soon. Based on the way the wood looked and how the walls were built, I’d say a ship from the nineteen-sixties.”

Lestrade’s face renounces its anger and is replaced by excitement, “I’ll have my boys at the Yard check for anything. Meet me there later?” He runs to the door, “Sherlock, we’ll figure something out. I’m _not_ losing you both again. Nearly killed me last time, you bastard.” He smirks and shuffles down the stairs to the exit. 

_‘Lose both of us’? What does that-?_

I push the notion from my mind with a wave of my hand.

_Waste of brain energy._

I turn to Mycroft with a blank stare and he returns it before glancing back towards the door.

“We will do our best to find him, brother dear. I am like-minded with Lestrade in this matter.”

I cock my eyebrows, but before I can say anything, Mycroft picks up his umbrella and makes for the door, “I will contact you if I find anything. Good night.” He nods and I hear the familiar fall of his footsteps as he heads down the stairs.

I sigh loudly and angrily kick one of the fallen books against the wall with a deep and dark growl.

“Dammit John! What would you do?” I rake my hands through my hair, “I solve _murders_ \- I don’t save lives; that’s what I have you for!” I seethe for a moment then regulate my breath. Then: _inspiration_.

I jump to my feet and retrieve all of the books from the floor, ripping out their marked pages and tacking them to the wall above the couch.

“Come on, come on, come on. I’m missing _something_. What is it?!” I demand of the wall. I scan through each page over and over, my mind highlighting similar words and phrases. This must have gone on for longer than I had anticipated because I am pulled out of my thoughts by my phone ringing again. I check it and I find a new text message from a blocked number.

_You’re running out of time. It’s a pity- he’s not much fun to play with. –JM_

I hesitantly open the attachment and nearly throw my phone in distress. I hold my breath in my chest and examine the picture again. John is sitting bound in a chair: arms behind the back of the chair and legs bound at the bottom.

The first thing I notice is John’s face. He’s obviously been jostled about some since the last transmission, because a small stream of crimson drips from his scalp across his face down to his lips, pursed with animosity, which themselves seem to have taken a beating as well. A new bruise is beginning to blossom on the left side of John’s face, and his eye socket seems to have taken the brunt of the force. His head is slightly bowed, his deep eyes glaring through his brow at the camera, dripping with contempt for its operator.

The next is John’s clothing: his innocent jumper has a myriad of small slits in the fabric, each garnished with blood from the touch of a blade. One rather large cut is places just above John’s heart. A gash far enough past the fabric to expose his bleeding muscle.

Finally, I notice the shackles at John’s feet. His hands were bound with zip-ties the last time I saw him, but then I wasn’t able to see his feet. Getting John out of that trap is now _that_ much harder. I search my mind for things that can rip through metal without being incredibly heavy and can’t come up with much.

I exhale shakily and forward the picture to both Mycroft and Lestrade.

_He’s toying with me now. –SH_

After a brief moment, Mycroft replies.

_Indeed. However, John won’t be able to lose much more blood before he’s in real trouble. Try and stay objective if you can. I might have found something on the cameras. –MH_

I huff loudly and type back.

_I AM objective, Mycroft. What did you find? –SH_

While I am answering Mycroft, Lestrade’s reply chimes in.

_Jesus. I swear I’m gonna kill this bastard myself. –GL_

I smile a bit, not sure if it is appropriate, but reply:

_Get in line. –SH_

Mycroft again buzzes in again.

_We followed the SUV that they used to the Southampton Port. It’s busy enough, even at night. But I think we’ve found the vessel that they’re using. –MH_

My heart jumps into my throat.

_Which one? –SH_

Another moment drags by and then his response:

_You were right. It’s a retired passenger vessel; it was just purchased by an anonymous buyer. Riechenbach is her name. How pretentious. –MH_

I scoff out loud.

_With a name like that, it has to be related to Moriarty. –SH_

I can’t help but think that this is moving too easily. Within several hours of John’s abduction, I’ve already uncovered the culprit, the reason, and the location of his prison. It almost seems that this man is _making_ it easy to find him.

_I love the cocky ones. They are always the easiest to catch._

I grin a malicious grin. The moment I find who did this, I will show them exactly what a high-functioning sociopath is capable of. The phone buzzes once more.

_The ship will be leaving port at 03:00. We have until then to get there and find John. A car will be outside in 5 minutes. How much involvement do you want? –MH_

I think long and hard before answering, impressed that Mycroft is actually offering me the reigns.

_None. The more involvement, the more hassle. If I find John before the ship leaves port, we’ll need a car waiting for us. If I can’t find him till after, I’ll need a helicopter prepared to pick us up. –SH_

I can almost see Mycroft pinching the bridge of his nose in the silence before his response.

_Sherlock, I don’t believe that wise. At least take Lestrade with you. That is my condition for transportation. –MH_

I groan audibly in the empty room.

_Fine. –SH_

I call Lestrade to inform him of the situation, and as promised, several minutes later, I see a black SUV parked on the street. I feel the blood pumping through my veins with vigor as I grab my coat and scurry down the stairs.

_I’m coming, John. Just hold on._

 

***

 

The taste of iron on my tongue is almost sickening at this point. I gather as much saliva as possible and spit as much as I can out on the floor next to me. I have to admit that being in a chair is more preferable to on the ground, but I can’t say that I’m any more comfortable.

I squeeze my eyebrows together as I try to open my swollen eyes and I gaze with contempt at my captor. He’s the largest of the three men that kidnapped me, and he seems to be enjoying the perks of his job very much so at the moment.

“Perks of this job must be pretty good, I suspect. At least good enough to keep your cheating wife from leaving you just yet.” I spit at his face. As expected, a new splash of scarlet fills my vision as the impact sways my body to the side, nearly knocking my chair over.

“Quiet! Don’t talk unless you’ve got something useful to say.” He grumbles. His thick cockney accent takes its toll on my patience, as well as his trigger-happy fist.

I groan feigning boredom. “You’ve beat me around for hours now, aren’t you bored?” I tease, close to hoping one more swing will put me out and I’ll be able to ignore him for a while. Instead of striking, the behemoth lifts me by the front of my jumper high enough off the floor to tighten the chain in tension.

“I said _quiet,_ you little twit.” He breathes into my face. His repugnant breath turns my stomach, but I don’t break eye contact, daring him to say something else.

A moment of silence fills the air between us in our battle of wills until he tires of staring and drops me back onto my chair, compressing all of my vertebrae with the force of my weight, and then turns towards the table a little ways away.

“What do you even want with me anyways?” I ask nonchalantly. “If you want me dead why not just do it? You seem to be having enough fun attempting it, anyways.”

He lifts the camera that was perched on it, and aims it at me. A red light begins to blink as he inches closer to me. A speaker on the side of it hums as a connection is made to whoever the desired contact is and when a light beep is emitted from it, my captor begins to speak.

“Doctor Watson wants to die, he says. Should I give him the benefit of death?” Before the person on the other line can answer, the giant kicks my chair over on the backside knocking the wind out of me and smacking my head on the hard wood. I can almost feel the bones in my arms crack under the shock of my entire weight, and I’m almost certain I just broke a finger or two. My torso convulses while I choke and gasp for air that won’t come, panic filling my mind. I lift my head trying to enable myself to breathe, but it’s futile and my head falls back to the ground, several times. In my shaking vision, I see the giant holding the camera at my face. A whimper escapes my throat as I feel my mind begin to blank, until suddenly, I hear a familiar, yet rattled voice escape the machine.

“ _Enough! You’re going to kill him!”_

I feel heat in the pit of my stomach at his voice and a single tear escapes my eye.

“Sher- _choke_ -lock?” I gasp, a weak smile covering my face as my vision begins to dim.

My captor laughs and pushes my seat forward with his one hand as the other grips the camera aiming at the other side of the room.

As the pressure of my body falls back onto the chair, I lean forward choking and coughing as I regain the ability to breathe.

“ _John, stop antagonizing him!”_

I nearly laugh, “But I’m- _wheeze_ \- having so much fun, can’t you- _wheeze_ \- tell?”

I can feel life flowing back into me with every successful breath and I lift my head to face the camera. It may sound cliché, but I see sparkles dancing in my vision everywhere I look, so I try my hardest to maintain focus on the man in front of me.

He smirks at me, obviously proud of the job he’s done, and opens his mouth to speak, “I suggest you hurry, Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson may not be so lucky next time.”

Before Sherlock can answer him, my captor slams the camera to the table, effectively shutting off the transmission, red light dead on the machine.

“That was fun,” he sneers at me, curling his lip in animosity.

He walks over to my chair and grips my chin, forcing me to look directly at his hideous face.

“I’d bundle up if I were you, Doctor Watson. It’s ‘bout to get right nippy soon.” He grins exposing his missing teeth and shakes my head away from him as he straightens himself.

He stalks to the door, but turns to me before exiting, “It’d be a shame if you froze to death. I’d say the boss would think you’d done it ‘by your own hand’, and you know what that means.” He crinkles his nose and shuts the door behind him.

I hadn’t realized how cold the room was until he had mentioned it and now I can’t think of anything but. I can’t imagine losing blood has helped at all, but at least all of it has scabbed over enough to not be actively bleeding.

My teeth chatter against themselves and I can feel the chill burn my hands and naked feet. I pull myself further forward in an attempt to conserve what little heat I have and groan on the pressure on my arms. Regardless, I make my mind think of Sherlock’s warm voice; imagining it as a personal fire inside myself.

_Sherlock is on his way. I just have to hold on a little longer._

“D-d-dammit, Sherlock-ck. You had b-better hurry up-p.” I whisper to the freezing room.

 

***

 

“Dammit!” I crush the phone in my grip hard enough to hear the plastic whine under the pressure. That voice was not masked with an augmenter, but the brief glimpse I caught of his captor’s hands weren’t the same as the black figure’s, so it must be one of his henchmen. _This is going to make it that much harder if he’s got a large group_.

“Jesus Christ,” Lestrade mumbles. “I swear to God, when I get a hold of that man…” He talks under his breath to no one in particular.

“How much longer?!” I bark at him, not necessarily concerned with tact.

He glances at the GPS on his phone, obviously ignoring my attitude, then out of the front of the car, “It says about fifteen minutes. Jesus, Sherlock!” He slams his fist slightly too hard on the frame of the door. He stews in his own frustration for a moment before exhaling a long sigh. “So how are we getting on the ship?”

I point at a picture of the ship Mycroft found, “We’ll jump ship, obviously. Let’s see what the set-up is first. There should be ample space for us to hide on top of it as long as there aren’t many passengers.”

Lestrade huffs at me and returns to looking at his phone, mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath.

I feel anxious the entire ride, my stomach turning in on itself in worry. My right leg jumps up and down with my excess energy and I feel my thumbs actively twiddling.

 _I know what this man wants, and I know how he wants this to end._ _I refuse to give up John after I just got him back; after he kissed me…_

I unconsciously touch my fingertips to my lips, remembering sweet memories of John for the rest of the journey, indifferent as to whether Lestrade was curious to my actions.

Around 02:00 we arrive at the docking area and park the car about a ten minute walk from where the _R.M.S. Riechenbach_ is in port. Lestrade and I file out of the car and walk into the shadows towards the still ship. We cross across the docks until we finally see her.

She’s a smaller passenger ship, but a large ship all the same. She seems to be incredibly old, judging by the condition she’s in, and I assert my assumption of 1960 was pretty spot on.

I motion for Lestrade to follow me out of the shadows and we creep onto the ship using an uninhabited service ladder onto the deck. As far as I can tell, the only thing that might give us away is our steaming breath as we move and I imagine that if there are any snipers, this will be a short trip. To our relief, however, none seem to make their presence known.

We crawl across the naked deck and into a service hallway where we stand and search for any sign of motion. After a moment of silence and finding nothing within the immediate vicinity, Lestrade leans up against the wall and blows into his gloves.

“Damn, it’s freezing out here!” He laughs quietly into his hands. I realize that I feel the cool on my skin as well as my cheeks and ears begin to flush. I follow suit and blow into my hands, rubbing them together for the heat of friction.

Lestrade smiles, “I’m gonna need me a right piping hot coffee after all this is done!” I grin involuntarily at the notion until suddenly, Lestrade and I are knocked to our knees as the ship fires its engines and begins to move. The vessel groans under the pressure of motion and its whine can be heard throughout the halls.

“It’s damn lucky we got here when we did!” Lestrade whispers as he pushes onto his feet again.

I scowl, “Lucky… Hmm.”

I pull out my mobile and dial Mycroft, my fingers numbly pressing familiar patterns into the phone.

“Did you find him?” He answers with a hidden urgency.

I frown into the phone, “No, but the ship just left port. We barely made it onboard before she cast off.”

“I’ll have a helicopter waiting at the port for your call.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.” I say honestly.

I can hear the snuff of surprise over the phone. “None of that, Sherlock. Call me when you need the transport.” The line dies.

I raise my eyebrows at Lestrade, “Well, it seems that we’re on our own until we find John.”

Lestrade hugs himself and asks, “How long does it take to get out to sea from here?”

I figure the number in my mind, “Assuming we’re going to be moving around fourteen knots, probably a couple of hours or so.”

Lestrade pulls further into his jacket, “We’ll let’s get a move on then. The longer we’re on this ship, the more trouble we’re bound to get into.”

I nod and motion for him to follow me down the hall.

As we walk through the dimly lit corridors, I can’t ignore the curiosity dancing in my mind.

“Lestrade?”

“Yeah?”

“What did you mean earlier? About ‘losing us both’?” I question him, my eyes remaining forward, refusing to make contact.

“Aw, Sherlock. You really think this is the best time for that?”

I pause before answering, “I need to know. What happened to John?” Although we had made it through the initial pain of reunion and reconciliation, neither party had actually explained what had happened to us after the Fall; at least until I spilled my guts earlier.

Lestrade huffs against his jacket and is obviously a little torn about the situation. “Well, Sherlock… John got a little… _Lost_ when you died- left!” He hurriedly corrects himself. “I’d find him out there, near your grave, almost every day, you see. He switched his tastes from tea to… something a little more potent and stayed on it for a while. Now, I know he’s not you, but I made sure to have my boys keep an eye out on him in the streets, and we found him there a couple of nights. Not normally filled with anything worse than whiskey, but it still kept me up at night.” He breaths a nervous laugh, “You know, one day I thought I literally saw the life leave his eyes when he brought up your name? It was a rough time for him, Sherlock. I wasn’t sure he would ever recover.” The silence between us it staggering after he finishes his speech and I can only bring my mind to feel guilt for what I’d done.

“I’m sorry, Lestrade.” I whisper, not sure if he could actually hear the confession. “I’m sorry for the pain I caused.”

I feel a slap to my shoulder and turn to see his smiling face, “Hey now. You’re back! And soon as we find John, he’ll be alright. That’s all that matters and no pissy attitude is going to help us find him!”

I nod curtly and direct my attention towards the hallways again.

This ship eerily reminds me of the Titanic: its halls are similarly fashioned; the ship is about the same size; and of course, the ever-looming doom that fills the air. We sneak through the dark hallways and find a map of the ship and I decide to study its features.

_Fifteen bulk-heads. Ten floors. Small for a modern ship, large for an older one. Approximately six hundred rooms. Several cargo holds that may or may not be filled. This ship is going to take an incredibly long time to search._

I groan audibly at the map on the wall.

“What?” Lestrade questions.

“You realize how large this ship is right? Nearly six hundred rooms!”

He whistles softly at the number, “Well, I guess the beast time to start is now. You take one side of the halls and I’ll take the other?”

We make our separate ways, checking every room with a slight crack of the door before shuffling to the next one. Every room is bare, empty of all furnishings and décor, so this was obviously meant to be its last voyage. With every empty room, my stomach turns ever more. Eventually, I find Lestrade again on the sixth floor down, and we both enter a room together. I peer out of the circular window and sigh.

“Well, we’re out at sea now.”

“Hmm,” Lestrade hums, joining me at the small window, gazing out into the dark ocean, and placing his gloved hand on my shoulder. “Well we’re half way done with the ship. We’ll find him, don’t worry.” He chances a smile at me and I can see exactly how much strain I’ve put him through tonight.

The bags under his eyes are even more pronounced than normal, and his face is slowly fading into the shade of his hair from fatigue. Even his smile is weary as his lips lift to speak, but before he can get the words out, the entire ship shakes and hitches with an enormous crash only comparable to an explosion.

Lestrade falls to his knees, clutching his ears, as do I, but I can still hear him yell, “Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?!”

“I don’t know!” I bellow back, pushing myself to the wall of the room as the aftershock of the blast subsides. Suddenly, a voice that belongs to neither Lestrade nor I fills the room.

“ _Welcome aboard, Mr. Holmes! We hope your search for your damsel in distress is faring well!”_

Seeing no stranger in the room or the adjoining hallway, I fumble as I search for a source, eventually finding an announcing system in the corner of the room.

“ _Unfortunately, this system is not a two-way one, so I suppose you’ll just have to listen…”_

The voice is masked like it was on the video, so I’d have to say it’s the same person, judging by the manner he speaks. My teeth grind in resentment at our host, wishing I could just find him and strangle the very life out of his body.

“ _So not only_ you _stowed away on our vessel, but you brought along a friend! How terribly sweet, Mr. Holmes. Two heads are better than one, they say. You might be wondering what that terribly loud noise was. Well, my friend, I’m afraid one of our bulkheads has just been compromised by a small explosion. As will one every half hour until this ship sinks. The question is, Mr. Holmes, where is Doctor Watson, and how much time do you think you’ll have? Good luck.”_

My turning stomach freezes over as I turn the possibilities in my mind, vocalizing them unconsciously.

“Fifteen bulk heads. Up to four of them can be submerged and the ship will stay afloat depending on where they are positioned. I need to know which one just blew!” I stand up and stagger towards the window. I retrieve the gun from my jacket and bash the glass out into the ocean until a wide enough hole to poke my head out of opens up. As I push my face out of the broken window, I feel the scratch of glass against my right cheek, but ignore it as I study the bottom of the ship. I see floating metal and wood towards the back of the ship, perhaps around the second or third bulk head.

_Theoretically at that position, any more than two more explosions will pull us under. Time is now more of the essence than ever before._

“Graham-!”

“ _Greg!_ ” Lestrade interrupts.

“Greg- _whatever_! We have about an hour before this ship begins to sink, depending of if I’m correct about how the patter of blows will go. I don’t think he is in one of these rooms. I think he’s in one of the bulkheads, perhaps one of the cargo bays. The game is on!” I leap towards the door and scurry into the hallway, yelling back towards the room,

“Come along, John!”


	7. At Wit's End

“Seriously- you’re gonna blow up the entire ship?!” I scream into the empty cargo bay. “Jesus Christ, you fucking lunatic!”

I seethe to myself, kicking the chain around my ankles and the chair out of frustration.

“And of course, I’m not going to be able to fucking do _anything_ but wait here to be rescued! Son of a bitch! Arrg!” I hiss as a blow to one of the links gets it caught in the shackle, pinching the skin enough to bleed. Without warning, I hear Sherlock’s voice.

_Relax, you can’t think straight like this._

“Sherlock?!” I yell into the room.

_Nope._

I huff, aggravated, “Great! Now I’m _actually_ going insane. And _of course_ the voice inside my head is yours, you cock!”

_Name-calling won’t get you out. Lean forward slowly, all the way into your knees._

“Whatever.” I give in, and find that if I just push a little further, I can lift my arms over the back of the chair.

“Aha, success!” I exclaim to myself as I nearly throw myself to the floor with the final bit of effort.

Although my hands are bound behind my back still, freedom from the chair is invigorating. I decide to try my luck with flexibility and stand away from the chair. I bend forward and bring my arms around my hips and down my legs until I fall back onto the floor. To my astonishment, my crazy plan works, and I shimmy my arms around my feet.

Finally, I get myself lying down with my hands bound on the other side of the chain attached to the ground.

“Now _this_ I can work with!” I lean forward enough to get my wrists in my mouth, gently chewing at the bonds. Slowly, but surely, my teeth clip off the left zip-tie freeing my hands from their prison.

“Aha!” I gnaw at the right one until it relinquishes its hold on me and rub my raw wrists excitedly. “Oh this is lovely! Now what else can I do?”

I search around the empty bay for something to use, to no real avail.

_Remember, John: the chain is only as strong…_

“As its weakest link.” I finish the though as I glance down the length of chain that attaches at the eye-pin. I scoot to the fastener and examine every link from my shackle to the pin. To my dismay, every chain looks as sturdy as the next.

“Dammit!” I cry, throwing the bunched chain to the ground with a loud, tinny noise that echoes through the empty cargo hold.

As I do so, the chain hits the pin and the impact slightly dislodges it.

_Told you._

“Oh, shut up.” I mumble. I grab the eye-pin in my hand and start to shake it, maneuvering it around in a circle. Every tenth or so shake, it dislodges a little further, and I can feel my anticipation rising. “Come on, come on, come on!”

_Pop!_

I laugh out loud and nearly cry out of sheer relief as the pin jumps out of the floor with a final tug. “Yes! Thank God!”

I stand up straight, picking up the excess chain as I do so. “Oh this is glorious!” I say as I walk around in a circle, the first time putting real weight on my feet since I’d been abducted.

 _How long ago was that?_ My own voice asks inside my head.

I wasn’t wearing a watch when I was picked up, and there don’t seem to be any windows. I look around the bay for any exits.

_If I leave now, Sherlock and Lestrade may miss me and we’ll waste time finding each other again. Is there a way to-?_

_Ah! The Camera!_

I nearly run to the table- chains nearly tripping me in the process- and turn the camera on waiting for it to register with Sherlock’s phone. The red light flashes, then the hum, then finally,

“ _What did you do with him?!”_

I feel my heart jump into my throat.

“Sherlock!” I can feel my throat crack in happiness.

“ _John? Where are you?”_

I turn it to where the camera lenses is facing me.

“I got myself out of the binding! I’m still attached,” aiming the camera to show my feet, “but I’m okay. Where are you?”

_“You’re brilliant, John! Absolutely marvelous! Lestrade and I are in some corridor. Do you know where you are?”_

I look around to find any identifying marks, but don’t come up with anything.

“I’m not sure. I’m in a cargo hold I think.”

“ _Aha! I knew it!”_

 _“Could you stop bragging just long enough for us to get out of here?!”_ Lestrade interjects.

I smile at the sound of Greg’s voice, “Greg! It’s so nice-!”

Without warning, an ear splitting rumble of sound fills the cargo hold as smoke and steel is thrown across the empty room. The blast throws me to the ground knocking the camera out of my hand and sliding it across the floor. My head hits the ground hard and I struggle to regain focus.

“ _John!_ ”

I howl in terror as I turn and face the source of the noise: a small bomb, just enough to blow a hole in the side of the ship just went off in the corner of the room.

“ _John! Are you alright? Please tell me you’re not hurt!”_

I probably would have laughed at Sherlock’s new-found concern, but at the moment, it wasn’t on the top of my mind.

“I’m not hurt, but holy shit! The wall just got blown out! The hole is about half a meter tall- what do I do?!”

Water is screaming in through the small opening, spraying across the room.

“Jesus Christ, it’s filling up!” I turn and run towards the camera, picking it up and continuing to the door all in the same motion, but to my dismay, the door is locked from the outside. I can feel panic welling in my chest, as I yell at the machine loud enough to go over the screaming water.

“Oh my God! I’m locked in. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“ _John, we’re coming! We’ll find you, just hold on!”_

The camera slips from my hand and falls into the water pooling around my feet. “Shit!” I pick it back up, but everything has already been corrupted by the salt water.

The freezing water laps up my ankles, and bites at my barely warmer skin, the salt stinging the open cuts. My eyes dart around the room in panic trying to find a way out.

_Nothing on the floor. Nothing on the walls. Oh my God, I’m going to die in here, with Sherlock out there._

Then I look to the tall ceiling in desperation and find a small hatch that looks like it opens into the floor above. There’s no way to climb up there, so I imagine the only way up it to let the water fill the room and take me up with it.

“Oh God, please let me live.” I beg some unseen deity.

_I just hope I don’t freeze to death before I make it up there._

“Please hurry, Sherlock.”

 

***

 

I jump into an all-out sprint, nearly slipping on the corner as I turn into one of the rooms. I bash out the window again and peer down into the ocean.

“Dammit! Lestrade, it’s all the way in the front. We’ll never make it there in time!”

Lestrade runs into the room just in time to hear me, swings me around and grabs my upper arms firmly, “Sherlock, think of the floors. There must be another way in besides that door. By the time we get there, opening it will just drown all of us. Think!”

My eyes widen in alarm and I shake my head, at my wit’s end, “I- I don’t know! I don’t know this ship!”

He shakes me hard, I’m sure leaving bruises in my muscles, “Sherlock! John is going to _die_ if you don’t help him. Think! Go to your ‘brain castle’ or whatever the hell it is!”

I start to breathe heavy and my eyes bounce around Lestrade’s face in panic.

“I don’t- I can’t- I don’t know- arrgh!” I growl as I force myself out of his grip and lean my back up against the wall, pressing my hands to the sides of my face.

I force my mind palace open, pulling the proverbial doors open with all of my might. I find the newest room addition and run in to find a box of new information I’ve retained about this ship. I begin to sift through it throwing images and graphs all over the floor. Just as I’m about to give up, John’s voice pops into my mind palace startling me.

_Hey, idiot! Calm down! If you don’t, you won’t be able to help!_

“I don’t know what I’m looking for! None of this makes sense. I can’t lose you again!”

_Hey, stop that! Look, think of it another way._

I push the box to the side and clear out of the room into the empty hallway.

“What do you want me to see?”

_Look at it like a soldier. Think of back-alley way._

There’s silence in my mind as I try and develop the attitude of a seasoned war-hero, not to much avail.

_I have an idea! Think back to when you were a kid. Do you remember the story your mum used to tell you about the bird and the pebbles?_

I break out into a sprint down the hall and turn the corner into the room of childhood memories, finding the book on stories and popping it open.

“Aesop’s fables. These are just stories! This doesn’t help!”

_Sherlock! You see, but you don’t observe! What does it SAY?_

“The bird couldn’t get to the water at the bottom of the vase, so he dropped pebbles until the water came up.” I answer not realizing I’m speaking out loud until I snap my eyes open. “John, you’re brilliant!”

Greg stares perplexed at me, “What?”

“Lestrade! John is the water at the bottom of the vase and the water is the pebbles. We have to wait for the water to push John up to the ceiling! It’s the only way! The roof! There must be a hatch! Come on!”

I grab his sleeve and drag him down the hallway.

 

***

 

There are far more enjoyable ways to die, I think. Besides drowning in ice-cold water, that is. I could die happily in my sleep, or have an aneurism on a beach somewhere in the summer.

Those sound fun, but this? This is bollocks.

Then again, who am I kidding? I _would_ die in an ancient boat out in the middle of nowhere by the hands of the new Moriarty. That is just so _John Watson_.

It’s only been about fifteen minutes, but the water is steadily rising, and I’m struggling to stay afloat. The room itself is about six or seven meters tall and I’m already about halfway to the roof. The water feels like knives slicing past my thick jumper and straight into my skin, stabbing ice into every muscle and freezing it into submission. I’m sure my lips match my eyes at this point, because I can’t stop my teeth from chattering long enough to take a decent breath.

A little bit of basic training pops into my frozen brain, and I slowly shuck my jumper and cast it away from me into the water, allowing the liquid to touch directly onto my skin.

I know that if they do find me alive, it’ll be harder to warm me up if I’m clad in a soaking wet mass of jumper.

 _If they find me alive_. I repeat in my mind. _Sherlock will find me, I know it._

 _John, I’m almost there, just hang on._ Even if I am going insane, Sherlock’s voice is welcome in this hour of need.

“Sh-sh-sherlock. If-f-f I never g-g-get to say it t-to you, I want y-y-you-”

_Stop that. Soldiers don’t give up this easily. You fell into a frozen lake skating when you were younger. What’s the difference?_

“It’s n-n-not the same! I was o-o-only under f-f-for a c-c-couple of minutes!”

_Well, now you’re older. You’ve had more practice defying death._

“B-b-bullshit.”

_Don’t over-exert yourself. You need to conserve energy. Don’t flounder around, rub on yourself._

“Sh-sherlock, I’m gonna d-d-die anyways! I’m not letting them t-t-take you again!”

_We’ll figure something out. Stop worrying about me. That won’t help you get out._

During this inner dialogue, the water has continued to rise and I find that I’m probably just over a meter from the ceiling.

I position myself under the hatch and try to grab at it, my stiff arms reluctant to move.

“D-d-dammit! Just a l-little more!”

After a few minutes my frozen fingertips finally touch it, pushing against, but barely feeling, the warm, dry wood. After another minute or so, I get my entire palm against it, pushing with all of my weight.

 _It’s just like the ice, John_.

I beat against it as hard as I can, only to see it budge a small bit. When I push against it again, I can see that the hatch is locked shut with a latch and my stomach turns.

“N-no Sherlock-ck! It’s n-not! It’s w-wood and it’s l-l-locked!”

Finally the water pushes my entire body closer and closer to the roof until only my head is not submerged.

 _John, you can’t give up_.

“I c-c-can’t do anything-g-g else!”

“ _John!_ ”

If my heart wasn't frozen to my ribcage, I’m sure it would have been in my throat. That was a real noise. I know that wasn’t in my mind.

“ _John! Make some noise if you can hear us!”_

“Sh-sherlock?” I mumble as I beat my hand weakly against the secret door. “Sherlock!” I try to yell, but my frozen throat is filled with water as the last few centimeters are engulfed in salt water.

The salt water burns as I open my eyes, but I have to be able to see if he was really there. I smack my hand against the wood with as much force as I can muster over and over.

I can hear noise of feet, as if they’re right down the hall and it energizes me to beat harder.

_Please, please come find me. I’m right here. I don’t want to die like this. Please, dear God._

The footsteps some closer to the hatch and I can hear the latch snap open. I feel my face smile at the light of the hallway above, and as my head emerges from the water, I catch my breath. I look up but don’t find Sherlock. Nor Lestrade.

“M-m-moriarty.” I whisper.

He smiles, and places his hand on my cheek, the heat nearly burning against my frozen flesh. “My friend, aren’t you chilly! Sherlock isn’t here to save you. Not anymore.”

“W-w-what do you mean?”

He raises his eyebrows, “I gave them a real chance. I did. But they took the wrong hallway. They ran into some of my… _friends._ ”

My eyes shoot open and I swat at any part of him that I can hit.

“You b-b-bastard! You said if I g-g-gave my life f-f-for his, he’d live! You’d g-g-get your way of h-h-hurting him, and m-me out of the p-p-picture!”

He grins a malicious smile, “Oh did I? Well, I guess I can’t be expected to remember _every_ promise I make! Whoopsie!”

Suddenly, his hand moves from my cheek to my forehead and thrusts me into the cold water again. I scratch and claw at his hand to no avail, and when I try and move away from his grip, his talons grip at my hair holding me in place.

I feel the breath leave my chest, the burn of salt water replacing it as my body involuntarily sucks in. Another liquid breath and my vision starts to fade.

The last thing I will ever feel is fear.

The last thing I will ever see is my murder’s hand.

The last thing I will ever know is pain.

The last thing I will ever think of, though, will be Sherlock’s lips against mine.

It takes every ounce of will I have in my body to make my last thought a good one, but I remember the warmth that filled me and shook me to my core.

_If I have to die for you, I’ll at least die thinking of you._

These are the last words I think before the cold darkness takes me.


	8. The Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, guys! I promise it makes sense!

“Dammit, Lestrade! I can’t hear him anymore!” I cry into the empty hallway. I can feel my breath hitching in my throat at every word. “He can’t possibly have that much time left!”

Lestrade turns around the corner and finally catches up, “I swore I thought I heard him a little farther back! Let’s turn around!”

I nod curtly and go to turn back around the corner whence we came, but as I do, two men stand before me blocking the way, guns drawn.

“Oh, I’m afraid you won’t be saving Doctor Watson anymore, Mr. Holmes.” The larger one grins exposing his missing teeth. This must have been the man who nearly killed John earlier. Rage fills every part of my being and I seethe.

“ _What do you mean_?” I spit.

The younger, thinner one speaks up, cocking his head to the side, “The Boss already took care of him, mate. You were just a tad too late!”

Ice fills my body at his words. “No!” I bellow in defiance, “No! He said he wanted _me_ , not John! Get out of my way!” I swat at the armed assailants but the larger one jabs his gun into my gut.

He tuts at me and pushes the weapon farther against my unmoving frame, “I don’t think so, mate. We’re gonna finish this right here.” His eyes crinkle and are alight with insanity.

Mine, too, fill with madness and rage. I feel fury paint my face and all my muscles tense from the untamed energy.

 _Don’t you DARE tell me I can’t save John_.

With one swift smack to his hand, I force the weapon out of the behemoth’s hand and onto the floor. In the same motion, I grab his small finger and bend it inside itself till his knees give out and then a sudden palm to the bridge of his nose effectively ends his life.

His body convulses on the floor, blood spurting out of his nose, as his cohort looks upon it in dread. I can hear him give a small squeak of fear, but before he can raise his gun in defense, I draw mine and place it towards his temple.

“You will show me where John Watson is, or this will be your last breath.” I hiss.

His body trembles under the new circumstances, and he stammers to speak.

“Time is running out, you philistine! _Where_ is John Watson being held?!” I command, pulling him up slightly by the front of his coat. I can feel madness and fear take over my body as I speak, but I can’t waste the time to care about anything besides finding John.

“I-I-I don’t know!” He confesses.

Out of irritation, I turn him around and slam the butt of the gun into the back of his head. His body crumples next to his companion on the ground and the gun falls from his grasp.

“Lestrade,” I hiss, “Grab that. No need to kill him if he’s unarmed.”

Lestrade obeys and picks up both of the assailants’ guns.

“That last hallway, Sherlock- I think that’s where I heard it coming from. Come on, let’s check again!” He pleads.

I run towards the last hall without acknowledging his plea.

As I round the corner, I watch as a smaller man with dark hair and round eyes lifts his hand from the opening in the floor and shakes his hand free of water. He then slams the floor hatch down and locks it, spraying the surging water around the opening.

“Back away from that hatch.” I growl, weapon drawn in warning.

He lifts his face towards me and smiles. I can place his resemblance almost immediately.

“Moriarty, I suggest you move before I end your life where you stand.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes! How nice of you to join us. Well, I guess _me_ , since there doesn’t seem to be an _us_ any more…” He smiles and motions at the closed door. “You may have avoided your death, but you can’t save John from his anymore, I’m afraid. Pity. Living life without half of your heart is truly a wretched existence.” He says in a droning singsong voice.

“You said I could trade my life for his, you bastard! An exchange, remember?!” Hatred and heat dripping from my clenched teeth.

“Oh, but you _did_ , Mr. Holmes. You traded the worth of your life, to give him a peaceful death. I got what I wanted. Now I get to see you live only half a life. Now you can see what it feels like! You can know what poor John and I _both_ went through!” He laughs a maniacal laugh, but it’s cut short by the sound of a bullet passing through his chest.

I start at the noise because my gun wasn’t the assailant, and turn to Lestrade whose gun is nearly smoking from the recent discharge.

“We don’t have time for his bollocks monologue.” He states flatly.

I don’t give him the benefit of an answer, and instead fly to the door on the floor and swing it open. As I do, water that was being held back gushes out making it hard to see.

“John!” I yell, knowing he can’t hear me. I slide out both my over coat and my suit coat and throw them far enough to avoid the flowing water and slide my slender body into the trap door against the current.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?!” Lestrade demands as he puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“I _have_ to find him Lestrade!” I shout as I take a deep breath and submerge myself into the freezing seawater.

I push myself down, my hands firmly placed on the ceiling in an attempt to hold my body straight. I open my eyes and feel the saltwater’s sting as I try to see anything the dark room. The water distorts my vision drastically, but an emergency light on the far wall gives just enough illumination for me to see a floating shadow in the water.

_John!_

I force my freezing muscles to swim as close as I can towards John’s suspended body, finally reaching for him with my right hand. As I make contact, I pull him close to my body and push both of our masses through the icy water.

My head is the first to break the surface, “Lestrade!” I choke on his name as water fills my mouth. I flounder in the small opening a bit as I push John towards the surface, forcing myself back into the water to make room. Lestrade hoists him out of the water and onto the floor as I drag myself out shakily with frozen muscles.

John is laid out on the hard wood, and my body freezes in fear. He seemed to have relieved himself of his jumper, so more of his skin is visible than was earlier. That being said, the water has washed his body clean of the crimson that covered him just minutes before. Now his skin is nearly snow-white, although his lips would probably match his eyes if they were opened. I touch my hands to him again, and the ice that pushes against my palm fills me with dread.

Lestrade takes no time for sentiment and instead begins to push against John’s frozen chest at a measured pace.

“Dammit, John, don’t give up now!” He curses as John’s body does nothing to exhibit any sort of animation.

I lean towards John’s face and plead to his unconscious form, “Please, John! I can’t lose you now! I need you, please come back! I’m not giving up on you just yet!” I feel the tears form in my eyes and fall, but they’re hidden by the fact I’m still drenched in seawater.

Lestrade breaths into John’s mouth, then begins to push on his chest again.

“John, you bastard! Breathe!”

He repeats the pattern.

Five.

Six.

Ten.

Twelve.

Fifteen times.

Before collapsing at John’s side rubbing his hand at his face.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I-I-I don’t know what else to do!” He whimpers into his palm.

I place my hand on John’s cheek and feel my chest concave as I involuntarily begin to weep. I pull the still John onto my lap and cradle his face against my shivering chest. “John, please don’t do this. I need you. Please, John. I can’t – _sob-_ I can’t let you go just yet! Not when I just - _sob_ \- got you back!” My sobbing chokes out any further words I might have had.

I push my forehead to his icy temple and trace his thin lips with my chilled fingertip.

I shift my shaking body to position myself to touch his lips to mine- just one last time.

The chill of his skin against mine chills me to my core, and the tears fall more profusely. I look directly into his face and whisper only loud enough for me to hear,

“I love you, John Watson.”

I begin to weep even more violently as I lay him on the wooden floor and position myself to lay next to him. My distraught body shivers as I clutch to the only man I’ve ever needed in my life; the only one I’ve ever _loved_.

I wasn’t aware, until this point, that there was such a thing as a “broken heart”. I had always just played it up to sentiment taking its toll on fragile minds. However, my mind is now changed forever. As I look at John’s still body, I can actually feel my sternum caving in on itself. I can _feel_ some muscle in my chest actually pulling apart as my tears fall onto John’s face with no automatic reaction. Every beat of my heart drills a hole deeper into my chest, perpetuating the empty sensation inside. I opened up my heart to let John in, to allow myself to _feel_ for another person.

_By God am I feeling something now._

I lean my face on his chest and prepare myself to say my last goodbyes when a faint noise breaks my concentration.

I push the thought out of my mind, assuming it’s a trick of my fragmented cardiac muscle, until I hear it again.

My eyes widen and my breath stops as my ears bend towards him at the interruption.

“What is it?” Lestrade sniffs, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“Shh!” I demand, throwing a hand at him.

I push my face into his chest begging to hear it again.

 _Nothing_.

Refusing to believe it was a trick, I listen for it more intently.

_Thump._

“Is that-?” I whisper.

_Th-thump._

“John?” I breathe softly.

_Thump._

“John! He’s- he’s got a heartbeat!” I scream, almost laughing with relief.

Lestrade turns over towards me with pity strewn on his face.

“Sherlock, I know you want him to, but you can’t change-”

“Listen!” I hiss, grabbing his coat and pulling his face to John’s chest.

He looks up to me in sympathy, but then it washes away into concentration. His eyes widen and his teeth bare in a grin, as he lets out a light laugh.

“I’ll be damned, Sherlock! He’s alive! Grab your jacket!”

He starts to push on John’s chest, “Come back to me, John. Come on.”

I sit in anticipation clutching my jacket with enough force to nearly rip the fabric until-

“Aha!” Lestrade hollers in triumph as John beings to spit up water all over his torso.

“John!” I cry out loud as I pull him back into my lap, wrapping him in my still-slightly-warm coat that nearly engulfs his smaller body.

He continues to cough and sputter until all of the water vacates his lungs, his body trembling against mine with every expulsion of liquid.

I unbutton my shirt and place his hands on my chest, inhaling sharply at the contact with his icy skin.

He begins to clutch onto me, unconsciously pulling himself closer to my torso, nearly hitting himself with his own dog tags that are precariously dangling from my neck, shivering with every movement of his muscles. I clutch back with just as much necessity and then smile at Lestrade, tears welling in my eyes as I rock his now active frame.

“Lestrade! He’s alright! John! He’s alive!”

He sits back on his heels and rubs his short hair with his palm, “Well I’ll be damned. I’ve never seen someone come back from the dead like that.” Then he laughs, “Well, except you, I suppose!” He begins to laugh, and I can’t help but join in, the laughs intermingling with the tears still present in my chest.

I push my face closer to John’s still unconscious one and smile, “Oh my god, John! Thank God you’re alright! Thank you!”

I cradle John’s body against mine, rubbing vigorously on the jacket to heat him up.

Lestrade then stands up and pulls out his mobile, “Well, he’s not out of the woods, yet. I’m calling Mycroft.”

I nod at him, but immediately return my focus to John as Lestrade’s voice fills the hallway.

John’s eyebrows furrow as color starts to fade back into his cheeks, and his breath starts to accelerate in pace. His shivering muscles clench at my bare skin, scratching me with his nails, but I pay it no heed, far too excited to see animation in John again.

His eyelids flutter a bit as he tries to open them and he moans.

“John, I’m right here,” I assure him, hugging him closer to my torso. “You’re alright. We’re both alright. John, I have you.” I lightly kiss his forehead as he begins to stir.

“Sh-sh-sherlock?” He coughs, struggling to open his eyes and focus on my face. He forces a weak smile as he recognizes me. “As l-l-long as I g-g-get this view, I’m ok-k-kay with being dead,” he stammers, still frozen to the core.

I laugh in return, “Unfortunately, you’re just stuck with the real thing, John.”

He shivers violently in my lap, “Ch-christ, I’m s-s-so c-c-cold, Sherlock-ck.”

I knead more fervently at him, “I know, love. I know. We’re getting you out of here, just hold on.” I’m not sure if it helps at all, but I press my lips to his, exhaling my hot breath into his chilled mouth. I continue until I feel lightheaded and I pull back, gazing at John’s perfect face.

Although most of his skin is still white, pink begins to blossom in his cheeks and he slowly opens his eyes to study me, “We’ll h-have to p-p-practice that w-when we g-get home.” He smiles with chattering teeth and I kiss him again.

“Oh shush, I’m still learning, you arse!” I tease, plucking one more kiss from his lips.

Lestrade walks over and huffs a light laugh, “Well I never thought I’d see the day…”

I smile cheekily at him and then direct my gaze back to John, “Come on, love. Mycroft should have someone here to pick us up soon. Let’s get you out-”

My words are cut short by a myriad of noises: a gunshot that screams in the nearly silent room; John’s stifled scream; the sound of lead piercing flesh; Lestrade yelling; a second bullet just as violently loud as the first.

I cry out and touch John’s face where something has grazed his cheek, causing it to bleed lightly. His face is frozen in shock and his body stiffens against me; I can barely hear him shouting my name as my hearing fades into ringing.

A burning sensation unlike anything I’ve ever known fills my chest and I glance down. Blood begins to seep out of my already damp silk shirt, right above my heart, and I touch the crimson not believing it real. My hands shake as the warmth coats them, disproving my theory.

Everything stands still.

I feel like I should really be a little bit more upset about being shot, but my mind is still frozen in shock and disbelief. I gasp lightly, then look back to John. His eyes are wide in horror, face twisted in pain, and I can see his lips moving, although they don’t make sound. I feel my body fall back in slow motion and my head drops to the ground with a light thud.

I blink once, feeling every motion of my eyes like a shock in my body. I blink again, and see John hovering over me, pushing down on my chest and I cry out.

I taste iron in my mouth and cough involuntarily. John turns to Lestrade and says something, but I can’t hear the sounds.

Certainly, I feel pain, but I also feel numb. It doesn’t make sense and I feel as if I’m stuck in a moment of limbo. I feel John’s dog tags fall from my chest to the side of my neck, and my head lolls to the side.

_This is it; this is the exchange. My life for John’s. I’m okay with that._

I exhale a gurgle, and force myself to look towards John. I want his face, panicked or not, to be the last thing I see.

_If I have to die for you, I’ll at least die thinking of you._


	9. Desperate Times

The warmth of Sherlock’s body almost burns my frigid skin, but the familiar scent of his clothes and cologne fill my body with relief. I hug him tighter to me with a weak tug at his chest.

He smiles a beautiful grin as he begins to pull my stiff body up gently, “Let’s get you out-”

Out of nowhere, a flash of pain covers my face and my ears ring with the familiar sound of a gunshot.

My body tenses preparing me for the impact of a bullet, but when, after a moment, nothing happens, I unclench my eyes and look around. Seeing nothing on my body or anything around me, I turn to my right and my gut drops in horror.

“Oh my god, Sherlock!” I scream, terror filling my body and escaping my lips.

Sherlock exhales sharply and touches my cheek wiping the blood away with his thumb. He then searches my body with his eyes and when he finds no wound, he slowly lowers his gaze to his chest. He examines the injury with his fingers as if he doesn’t believe he’s just been shot, but when the realization of the event hits his brain, he chokes on his breath and his eyes widen in panic.

“Lestrade, what was that?!” I call out.

“Christ!” He yells as he swivels away from us. I hear a second shot and turn to see where it hit.

On the other side of the hatch Moriarty is on his knees with a gun in his left hand, profusely bleeding from the newest addition of lead to his torso. His face is covered by a hideous toothy grin, painted pink with blood, and his eyes alight with madness.

“I… win…” He hisses before his body slumps forward and his dead hand releases his grip on the gun.

Lestrade turns on his heel and his eyes dilate as he notices the scarlet on Sherlock’s shirt. “Shit, Sherlock!” Lestrade hollers as he leans down to us.

Sherlock glances up at Lestrade in denial, but then his body begins to lax under me and he starts to fall back onto the floor.

“No, no, no- Sherlock stay with me!” I lean forward, ignoring the soreness and resistance I feel throughout my body and kneel next to him. “Sherlock, stay focused! If you go into shock, you’ll die!”

Blood pulses from his chest wound so I remove my tattered shirt and I press down against it hard and Sherlock howls in protest from the pressure.

“I know it hurts, but we need to stop the bleeding!”

Sherlock moans lightly as he gasps for breath, and I watch something metal slip around his neck as his face falls to the side. His eyes bounce open and he coughs, crimson coating his lips.

“Oh shit.” I mumble, “Lestrade he’s not going to make it if we can’t get him to a hospital soon! When is Mycroft supposed to get here?”

“We’re really far out of port, John! It’s gonna take a while!”

My stomach turns to ice and my heart stops as I try desperately to think of something, “Sherlock, please! Stay with me! Say something!”

As Sherlock turns his face to me, the sea-green of his beautiful eyes fades fast into an empty gray. He lifts the corner of his mouth in a half smile, as if to say “I’m sorry”, and he slightly bucks underneath me from the blood loss.

Tears begin to well in my eyes, “Sherlock, please! Don’t leave me again. I won’t make it this time!” I feel my body shiver from the cold, but I shove it off and try to stay focused.

Sherlock’s eyes gaze straight into mine as I beg for his life, “Please, Sherlock. Don’t go.” Contrary to my plea, his eyelids flutter as his eyes roll back in his head and he slacks against the floor.

“Dammit!” I curse into his chest until an idea pops into my head.

Frozen fingers fumble against cloth as I tear Sherlock’s silk sleeve from its seams, then rip it again making it longer. I knot the cuffs together then tie it tight around his torso, holding my wadded shirt in place.

I then turn with stinging eyes to Lestrade.

“Here, help me lift him!” I struggle to my feet, dragging Sherlock’s arm over my bare shoulders.

“John, you’re gonna hurt your-”

“I don’t _care!_ ” I snap, cutting him off, “Sherlock may not make it off this ship, but he certainly has _no chance_ if we don’t try! So are you going to help me or not?!”

His shock at my new-found passion is quickly erased by urgency as he picks up most of Sherlock’s weight on his own shoulders. I dip down quickly to pick up my chain, and we start to move slowly forward, Sherlock’s ankles dragging on the floor thanks to his excessive height.

“Do you remember how to get out of here?” I question as Lestrade huffs under Sherlock’s weight.

“Yeah, but it’s going to take a while. We’re nearly ten floors down.”

I curse under my breath until I see us pass a ship map posted on the wall.

“Hold up!” I stop and examine the graph, excitement filling my body. “There’s a service lift! Right down this hall!” I announce, hurriedly pointing down the corridor to our left.

We struggle to turn and Sherlock’s head lolls my direction, the metal chain around his neck slapping against me.

_I didn’t know Sherlock wore jewelry._

I look closer in order to examine it, but I don’t need to for long since I would recognize that chain anywhere.

_My dog tags!_

I nearly choke on the breath in my throat and my eyes tear up even more.

_Yeah, okay, Mr. I-Don’t-Believe-In-Sentiment Holmes. I’m calling bullocks._

I narrow my eyes to examine him again.

_Where did he even get those?_

“You alright there, mate?” Lestrade interrupts my internal monologue with anxiety as I nearly trip over myself staring at the tags.

I clear my throat and nod towards Sherlock’s neck, “Yeah, it’s just- I- where did he get those?”

Lestrade bends down to look in the direction I was pointing to and smirks.

“Ha! I hadn’t even noticed! Moriarty left them for him at your flat. Apparently, it was supposed to signify a ‘talisman’ or something. I think they fit him, don’t you? I didn’t know he even liked jewelry.”

I scoff slightly, “He doesn’t; that’s why I’m so touched!” I laugh against my better judgment and cringe at the pain in my side. “I’m fine!” I preemptively answer before Lestrade gets out the question of concern.

We stumble and fall as a deep gurgle commences in the lower part of the ship, shaking the ground.

“Shit! I didn’t realize so much time had passed!” I huff as I push myself back to my feet, Sherlock’s head leaning against my shoulder.

Lestrade struggles to stay standing, urgency filling his body language, “Sherlock said something about this ship and the bulk heads. He said if any more than three of them blows, the ship’s going down! We’ve got to get out of here!”

He begins to drag Sherlock and I down the hall until we find the promised elevator. Although incredibly run down, it still seems to be in operation. We push Sherlock against the wall and crawl in afterwards throwing the lever to the deck floor. The lift begins to rise slowly but surely as the ship begins to shudder from another blast.

“The hell was that?!” I yell over the noise.

“I dunno! That’s not supposed to happen for another half hour!”

I clutch at Sherlock’s lifeless body and touch his throat. He still has a pulse, faint and fragile, but existent all the same. I lift the makeshift gauze and hear Sherlock moan slightly from the breath of oxygen into his wound.

“He’s not got much longer,” I mumble under my breath. Then anxiety fills me, “Wait- what did you say about the bulkheads? Only three can blow before we go down?”

Lestrade pulls his arm over his head to shield himself for anything that may fall from the ceiling and then points at the unconscious body beside me, “That’s what _he_ said!”

Thankfully, the lift comes to a halt and Lestrade pulls himself out first, dragging Sherlock’s full body along with him, allowing me to get a respite of freedom to stretch my aching muscles. I’m suddenly knocked to my knees as _another_ explosion rips through the ship.

“Christ! Mycroft’s never gonna get here in time!” I holler into the ground as I slowly pick myself up.

“Come on!” Lestrade urges as he moves to climb the stairs to the deck. I lift myself and move as quickly as possible to the stairway positioning myself under Sherlock’s arm and resuming his weight on my shoulders.

We stagger up the stairs and after a couple of missteps finally out onto the deck.

We deposit Sherlock’s inanimate body flat on the deck and I check his vitals again. His shirt is now drenched in the vast amount of blood he’s lost, and his normally ivory skin is a sickly gray, his lips frail-looking and white. His skin is beginning to feel cool to the touch, and I can sense that he’s about to go into shock if we don’t get to a hospital, _soon_.

“Dammit Sherlock, don’t you leave me. Not like this.” I whisper into his chest. The pressure against his wound causes him to emit a small whine and a single tear escapes his eyes. The sight of it breaks my heart and my throat tightens with emotion.

Lestrade stands up and pulls out his mobile again,

“Mycroft! Where’s you transport? We need it immediately! The ship’s set to sink any minute! No, they’re not alright. John’s running on adrenaline fumes and Sherlock’s been wounded, badly; he’s unconscious and bleeding out fast. They both need a hospital!”

I feel my head sway with fatigue and I waver on me knees, eventually plummeting to the ground, trying to focus on Lestrade’s voice to center my thoughts.

“Jesus, John! Mycroft, John’s falling out and Sherlock’s not gonna last much longer! I need help!”

I focus on the numbers of breaths I take and grab Sherlock’s hand, intermingling his fingers in mine. The cool touch of his skin sickens me, but the feeling of his hands in mine is incredibly welcome.

Suddenly, I feel the heat of Lestrade’s hands against my cheeks. My eyes turn to find Lestrade’s face inches from mine, staring into my deeply trying to make a point.

“John, don’t give out on me just yet. I’m gonna need you to help me keep Sherlock alive. Transport should be here soon, I just need you to hold on alright, mate?”

I furrow my brow trying to force myself to focus. “I’m trying,” I mumble, although it sounds more like, “ _M-trig”_.

I try and lift myself up, but my elbows buckle underneath my weight.

“Easy, John!” Lestrade warns, putting his warm hand behind my back pushing me into a sitting position. “Just stay awake a little longer, okay? We’ll get out of this soon.” He turns away from me and back to his mobile, “We need help _now_ , Mycroft! Hurry!”

I try and focus on his face as my head swims from everything that’s just happened in the last couple of hours. I blink and it feels like an eternity passes.

“Here, take this.” Lestrade insists as he shrugs off his coat. I look down and realize I’m still half-nude and freezing and gladly take the fabric to wrap around myself.

The ship shudders again as another bomb is detonated, and then she starts to whine suspiciously.

“That doesn’t sound good at all…” Lestrade mumbles.

I pull the coat closer around my shivering body and try to lift my head to check the surroundings further. The sun is beginning to rise and the entire deck is illuminated in a foggy bluish hue. The ship is considerably shorter in the water than is customary, and seems to be sinking straight down instead of dipping to one side or the other. From what I can see of the water, wood and debris is floating around everywhere.

_I’m sure this is gonna be hell to clean up._

Sherlock’s frame bucks again as crimson escapes his slightly cracked lips, dripping down his cheek.

“Sh-sh-sherlock!” I exclaim, not realizing that my teeth has resumed their chattering. I begin rubbing my hand on his other relatively clean cheek. “Where is M-m-mycroft?!”

Lestrade turns his gaze towards Sherlock’s trembling body and his knees nearly give out, “I don’t know! He said he was coming!”

He then begins to lose his footing as the ship shudders as another bulk head is compromised with seawater, “She’s not gonna last much longer at this rate!” His dark eyes stare at me, filled with dread that I’ve never seen in him.

“The b-b-boats! Are there a-any on the d-deck?” I yell as the idea pours out of my mouth.

Lestrade stands straight and hurries to check the entire area.

As he leaves, Sherlock moans again as his chest bucks forward. Although incredibly grateful, I’m terribly surprised Sherlock’s been able to hold on this long. My makeshift tourniquet isn’t very efficient, and the cold is making his body expel even more energy than is safe as he shivers.

“I kn-know, Sherlock.” I comfort the dying man on my side, “Look, p-please don’t die, alright? You a-already did it to me once, d-d-don’t you do it to m-me again.”

I grab his wrist with my shivering hands and feel his pulse. To my dismay, it’s faint, barely enough pressure to push against my searching fingers, and it’s skyrocketing.

_His heart of gold is trying its damndest to keep him alive._

I lean forward, using my right hand to steady me but still almost ramming my face into his, and place my lips at his trembling brow. His skin is cool against my slightly warmer lips, sending a chill up my spine, and I lift my left hand to feel his bloodied chest, toying with the tags around his neck.

“J-just stay with m-me a little longer, ok-k-kay? I can’t let g-go of you y-yet.” I plead to his subconscious, halfway hoping something I say will trigger some magic in his body and heal the wound before he bleeds out on the deck of this awful ship. “Sh-sherlock,” I say as sternly as I can with chattering teeth, “I want to t-tell you that I-I-I l-love you, but I’m n-not doing so till I c-c-can look you in the eye. D-d-don’t you t-take that away from m-m-me you g-great idiot.”

Lestrade runs up to us, heaving smoke from his lungs in the cold late-autumn air, “There’s _nothing_ on board! We’re stranded!”

I roll my eyes to the sky in desperation, “F-fuck!” I look around and turn back to Lestrade, pointing to a wall several meters away, “Let’s g-get to that wall and huddle t-t-together. We need to conserve Sh-sherlock’s heat b-before he leaves us completely.”

Lestrade bends down to help lift me up, until his eyes turn towards the sky and he smiles enough to touch both ears. I turn to determine the reason for the sudden mood swing and gladly find it.

“There he is! He’s right there!” He hollers pointing to a black shadow coming towards us from the distance.

_I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever felt happy to see Sherlock’s older brother, but I could probably kiss him right now._

My heart races as the black shadow evolves into a machine of the British Government and lands on the deck of the sinking ship.

Mycroft is the first to embark out of the helicopter and rushes over to our little group huddled on the deck.

“Lestrade, help John onto the helicopter!” He bellows, barely audible over the whir of the swinging blades. I then see his face drop and turn gray as his eyes travel to Sherlock’s figure. “Oh my God. Sherlock, what have you done?!” He cries out as he kneels down and cups his little brother’s bloody face in his gloved palm, a single tear making its presence known in his eye. To my astonishment, he then does the completely unexpected and places his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and knees, and picks him from the ground in a single graceful motion. Sherlock’s lanky, limp form drapes over his older brother’s arms; his unconscious face bent towards Mycroft’s chest.

_I swear- these Holmes Brothers and their “lack of sentiment”._

Mycroft says nothing else towards us, but begins to carry his brother and deposits him on a stretcher that has just been pulled out of the helicopter. Lestrade and I both sit still in astonishment of what we’ve just seen, gawking at each other in awe.

The ship’s sudden shiver shakes us out of our shock and Lestrade pulls me up to my feet and drags my arm over his shoulder.

Sherlock has already disappeared into the flying machine, as have most of Mycroft’s people who had been helping, so Lestrade climbs in and then extends his hands towards me. I place my hand in his, ready for this nightmare to be over, until I collapse back onto the deck with a screaming sting that tears through my right calf.

I lift my eyes to find the cause of my pain and find the youngest man that kidnapped my running towards the helicopter gun drawn. I scramble back to my one working leg, narrowly avoiding a second bullet to my hip, and Lestrade pulls me with both arms into the helicopter, almost forgotten chains dragging across the opening, as Mycroft slams the door shut.

The pinging of lead against the bullet-proof frame fills the machine until his gun is emptied and the helicopter leaves the deck without another moment’s notice.

I scream out loud and grip my calf with my hand and my head swims, drowning in adrenaline, shock, and pain. I feel my head hit a rather soft surface and my eyes shut.

_Perhaps Lestrade?_

I hear my name called, but I can’t force myself to open my eyes again. I feel the warm, sticky liquid on my hand and leg, but can’t actually make myself do anything to keep it from flowing.

I open my eyes and see a shadow of a man move towards me and then I feel pressure on my back. I feel something cover my face and the familiar scent of packaged air fills my lungs. My eyes flutter at the sound of my name again, but I don’t respond. Someone moves my leg from my hand’s grip, which feels like another bullet passing through it, but I don’t stop them from doing so.

 

_I’m done fighting with everyone around me._

_I’m done trying to stay awake._

_I’m done seeing Sherlock’s nearly lifeless body besides me._

 

_I’m just done._


End file.
